


The Earthly City

by Ghostcat



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BFFs, Blind Character, Canon-Typical Injury, Character Study, Conversations, Cunnilingus, Easter Eggs, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Latinx, Making Out, Male Friendship, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson - Friendship, Mentions of Karen Page, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Roman Catholicism, Romantic Tension, Sensory Overload, Sensory Sensitivity, Seriously So Much Talking, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Talkfest, UST, mention of Elektra Natchios, some Comics Canon, woc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A man who metes out justice for his city doesn’t succumb to ear infections. He doesn’t take the night off. He certainly doesn't spend it talking to his best friend or the woman he wants most.</em>  Or, the one where Matt and Claire get it on. (COMPLETE)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithers/gifts).



> This is my dubious and belated wedding gift to you. Because nothing says thank you for making me a better writer and _fuck yeah, marriage!_ like fanfic porn, right? Thank you for everything and congratulations!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A single peppercorn.

I.

A man who metes out justice for his city doesn’t get colds. He doesn’t succumb to ear infections. He doesn’t store Kleenex in hidden pockets of his body armor, or hit the local pharmacy for cold medicine and head straight to bed. He doesn’t take the night off. Spend it talking to his best friend or the woman he wants most. He doesn’t _whine_. He meditates and heals. Stops coughing, stops sneezing. He gets dressed, he gets ready. He fights.

That’s what Matt Murdock tells himself the night he goes out, accosts a group of drug dealers in an out-of-business music venue, and gets hit with a blast of noise so pulsing and sharp, the whole world goes quiet—without shape or form, or scent; the truest, blackest dark.

* * *

 

A car horn cuts a path through his skull—high serrated treble with a dissonant bass undertone. Matt clutches at his head, palms at the temple, and curls inwards, protectively. The pressure of his fingers on his skin excrutiating. Either his skin has turned to butter or he's grown claws. Talons. Needles. Knives.

Does he have dull switchblades for fingers?

Are those his fingernails?

This is a dream. No. He’d been sleeping but now he is awake, fully awake.

His body tilts back and swings around in a slow woozy arc, a fighter after the knockout punch, and he holds his breath, ready for the hard landing on the mat. But it doesn’t come. He registers hands gently pulling him up seconds later than he should've. Time isn’t right. Time is cracked folds, bent and cut. Fucked up.

“I got you. I'm gonna hold you upright. Okay, buddy?”

A voice, soft as frayed corduroy, whispering from his right. No, left. Left.

Matt turns, lifts his arm, hand meets cheek. Soft, light stubble, he pats down the neck to the shoulder, then the arm. Instant coffee, the faint burnt garlic center of a buttered bialy and a familiar rumpled warmth: Foggy Nelson. Foggy’s arms around him and stressed out—pulse rate fast and fluttery, the air salty with worry-sweat. And sour, sour too, tangy.

No. That’s not Foggy, that’s _him_. Himself. He really needs to shower. Ow. Something is eating in the walls. Loud crunching, loud jaws.

Another delayed reaction strikes and the hairs on his arms stand at attention. Dread.

Because Foggy had whispered.

Why had he whispered? Are they in danger? Where are they?

Matt listens but there’s only the din of millions outside, past the cement and the glass. People walking to subways, or from subways to home or work, stores, bars, and restaurants. Glasses clinking in chimes, dinner plates rattling in bus boys’ stacks. The painful _chrrrr_ of receipts printing out for ibuprofen and M &Ms and Chapstick. Focus. It is all too much to block out. Focus small. _I am inside. My room, my heart._

“I thought you’d switched to seven grain,” Matt manages, his voice sounding loud and off to his ears, wobbly, unsteady, a squeaky seesaw with no fixed center.

“Shit, I wasn’t thinking. Is it too much? Ah, I’ll go brush my teeth. Umm, I'm gonna lay you back slowly. Hold on.”

Poor breakfast decisions and worry, Foggy is there, Foggy.

The world tilts again and the couch is an uneven stone against his back. Matt reaches out for him, for Foggy, two ragged swipes, and gets a palmful of rolled up shirt sleeve, striped, Foggy’s favorite. Raised ridges. White and blue, Foggy had told him. Like a sky. White like the candles at church. Or a jet stream. In the sky on a summer’s day. Blue and white. To remember colors you need the memories. Memory takes practice. Colors take memory. Memory and practice. The sun is too loud.

He covers his face with his free arm, still dangling off of Foggy with the other. “Don't go.”

“Okay.”

Matt lets go of Foggy’s sleeve, rolls hard to get off the couch, suddenly desperate to escape, burrow against the pain, and thinks he might be falling instead. That same slow-time feeling as before, the air thick, windows closed. He is falling through harder air.

It's too quiet.

In minutes, or an hour, or probably seconds, Foggy is there, again, holding him up. That coffee smell bitter and hard, coming through Foggy’s pores. Matt shakes his head against the scent, leaving a damp patch on his friend’s shoulder. _Am I crying?_ He doesn’t feel it. Or hear it. His hands are clamped over his ears.

“Hey, hey, Matty. You're good. You're okay. Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. It's gonna be you and me and the dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman reading The Bible. That sounds good, right? Nice and relaxing. And wholesome! All those people begetting. We'll be getting some much needed shut eye in no time. A Saturday night for the ages.”

Matt laughs and it feels like pebbles in a washing machine—rattling, loose, and wrong. He remembers then that breathing comes first. Find the center. He breathes out. Slow like a pinprick balloon hiss. Breathing in is harder. He does it. Eventually, his own heart beat fades in the distance like so much background noise.

“How's your head?” Foggy asks gently. Matt is dimly aware of Foggy’s hands on his shoulders. He is being inspected.

“Better. But also terrible.”

Foggy laughs softly and rubs Matt’s shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, it feels like what it is: comfort.

“You’re not in bad shape, you know. Outside of whatever is happening in your noggin because of the sound thing. Just a few scrapes and bruises but no actual cuts or breaks. Can you stand up? Do you want to try? I’ll walk you around the room.”

Matt nods and stands slowly, but the floor is angled. Instinctively, he throws his arms out to steady himself. A buzzing _eeeeee_ noise starts in his right ear, pinched and narrow, then flares out into a larger _EEEEE_. He tastes ashes in his mouth. An ambulance tears past outside, turning the corner on his block with a screech, the blare of its sirens two dissonant shades. Inside it, EMTs question a young woman, a teenager, having a baby she didn’t realize she was having. The ambulance keeps going and he loses them to the gray. Then, a memory. Another woman—with large hollow sockets where her eyes should be, a cross stark on her neck. She is made up of circles, circles upon circles, no filler inside. _Shhhhhhhhhhh_ , she whispers. He doesn’t know who she is but her voice is something he wants to live inside of. The sound of it blurs with the _EEEE_ and the city-screams and the smell of rose oil. And wax. Dripping hot on his fingers.

“It's going to be okay.”

Matt is curled up on the floor, head resting on his knees, arms stretched in front of him, hands clasped. Foggy’s hands are on top of his. Matt doesn’t know how long they’ve been there like this. Like sweethearts at prayer. The image transforms his slow exhale into a giggle. He lets the gurgle of it rise up into the air, echoing, his chest hurting only slightly at the vibration—an injury, the memory of one.

“If you’re trying to scare me, Matt, congrats, you’ve succeeded.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall on the floor.”

“The falling I can handle, it’s the creepy, padded cell laughter that’s a dealbreaker.”

“Was it like this yesterday?”

“No, you slept. That was freaky too, actually.”

Matt stretches out his legs experimentally, then moves into a squat. His joints make miniscule pops that only he can hear. It’s better than before. His ears don’t ache. His body doesn’t burn. He bounces on his heels for a few pulses, then stands, weaving a little. Next to him Foggy scrambles up, but Matt holds out an arm to stop him.

“I’m fine. I’m steady. Sorry.” Matt yawns, the action disproportionately exhausting. “Is it noon yet?”

“Eh, it's 6... :08, well, :09. PM.”

Matt blinks. “You're just having breakfast?”

“I bought this stuff this morning. I forgot to have it until a few minutes ago.”

Matt can usually tell. Cold coffee breath is not the same as hot. The sun too, it felt hotter and higher than it should. Off, way off. He kicks his leg out until the side of his foot hits the edge of his couch. Matt walks alongside it, feeling the press of it on his calf, towards the corner furthest from the window. The quieter corner. He sits down.

Foggy crumples up a roach coach bag, it’s so loud Matt startles. Foggy holds his breath, then tiptoes, no heel just soft padded front-of-foot honest-to-goodness tip-toeing over to the kitchen area, tossing the culprit in the trash. Matt would've laughed at the care with which Foggy performed the action if he hadn't been so spooked.

“That must’ve been terrible, I’m sorry.” Foggy coughs quietly, apologetically. “I hate the sound of paper bags sometimes. Vacuums too. Babies. The worst.”

“You love babies. What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Monday,” Matt repeats slowly. “What happened to Sunday?”

“You... missed it?”

Matt tilts his head. He touches the minute ridges of the couch arm, the place where the weave comes apart, a lone, fraying strand. He considers pulling it, but rubs his palm on it instead. Foggy taps the counter with his fingers.

“It’s true. I love babies. They’re so squishy. Oh man, I need to bring you to meet my cousin Maggie’s twins sometime. You know, when you’re more immune to screams.”

“I missed Sunday.”

“Yeah, you were in and out of some super heavy duty delirium on Saturday but you were out cold by midnight. We think you might’ve had the flu and not realized it. Claire said that you had some inflammation in your ears so she got you something and uh, that seemed to help.” Foggy yawns, a three octave yawn, starting in falsetto and ending on an impossibly low bass note. “We actually got to talk this time. Not only is she un-beee-liev-ably hot, she's also really cool. I don’t—”

“Claire stayed here?” He sniffs the air delicately—nothing of hers. Beer in the recycling bin. Foggy’s birchwood and shea butter aftershave. Marci underneath that. Shoe polish. Falafel. Zinc. It’s as if Claire had wiped away all traces of herself.

There. Small but there. Violets. Candy she doesn’t eat, just carries around because she likes the smell. He licks his lips.

“Yeah, she stayed the last couple of nights, left around four. She had a... thing so I told her that I'd come by early and relieve her.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, I don’t know much about it.”

Foggy is a terrible liar. He scratches his neck, fidgets, and adopts a forced casual tone that isn’t him at all.

Suddenly, Matt’s distracted by his own heart, beating too fast. _Slow down_ , he thinks, his hand at his chest. His fingers pick at his shirt, a terry cloth long sleeve, he hasn’t worn it in months. “Who dressed me?”

“Uh, we did. I picked that shirt, I like that one. It's soft.”

“It is. Thank you.”

“I gotta say, pal, the vigilante work-out definitely agrees with you. Looking fit.”

Matt grins on the exhale. “Okay.”

“Not that I looked… much. Claire, though, was _completely_ unprofessional. Totally checking you out. Does that go against the Hippocratic oath? Does that even apply to nurses? I’m just saying, she may have thought about pinching your ass.”

Matt laughs. His laughter is less sharp this time, less stinging. It almost feels natural.

Foggy, encouraged, continues, a smile ringing in his voice. “It’s a good ass, Matt. I have incredible, show pony hair, you have a mouth-watering behind. We all have our crosses to bear.”

“Mouth-watering,” Matt repeats.

“I’ve heard said. By others. Not me. I just shook my head, by the way. For manly emphasis.”

“Right. What about Karen?” Matt asks, feeling around the surface of his side table. He isn’t searching for anything, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. The table has nothing on it.

“I’m not privy to her opinions on your derriere.”

Matt sighs a sigh he hopes translates as long-suffering.

“Oh, you mean _where_ is she? Still in San Francisco and none the wiser. She texted me earlier to say that the eel was superb.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she's fine.” The air moves when Foggy waves his hand. “Yeah, I just waved. Not dismissively though. It’s hard to explain. Kind of a long story. Inside joke. Ish.”

Inside jokes between Foggy and Karen that Matt doesn't know about. He feels oddly disgruntled by it. But there are things he does know that Foggy does not. Like the fact that Karen had lied to them about her trip. She wasn't going to San Francisco; her heart and its erratic beat were probably nowhere near the place.

“So, Claire was here?”

”Yeah, came by on Saturday after I found you. Luckily, she was coming off a shift. She’s amazing. I was sure you were having an aneurysm or something.” Foggy yawns again, then snaps his fingers. “Oh, I bought light bulbs. You need to do a better job of lighting the place if you expect pro bono medical attention from too-good-for-you nurses.”

“You’re right. She is too good for me.”

They sit in silence.

“You want something to drink? Some water? You’ve been reaching for your glass.” Foggy’s voice is unbearably kind. Matt can hear the soft lines in it like wool threads.

Matt puts his hands on his lap, pinching the fabric of his sweatpants in tiny, staccato pulls. “You don't need to stay.”

“What the what? Two seconds ago you begged me to stay. I'm not sure you even know what happened to you—”

“Accidental exposure to prolonged high pitched frequency. Amplified somehow. Disorientation. Vertigo. Hallucinations. Blacking out. In a room full of dealers. Advancing. Warehouse on 47th and 11th. Place that’s opening as a club in a few months.”

“That’s it?” Foggy worries the inside of his cheek with his teeth. He must have been at it for quite some time, because the smell of his blood blooms fresh.

“Why?”

“You have an ear infection, Matt. Claire thinks you didn’t give yourself proper time to heal.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’d gotten over my cold, no fever, no congestion or coughing—I was fine.”

Foggy’s eyeroll is audible. “I got a Google alert on Saturday—”

“A Google alert?”

“For you, dummy. Don’t judge me; I’m about three months away from an ulcer. I’m the worried grandma you never asked for. Yeah, I got a Google alert about those captured dealers and gave Brett a call.”

Matt tensed. “Captured?”

“Yeah. They were all tied up, knocked out, practically giftwrapped for the police. According to the press, it looked like your handy work.”

“Was I not there?”

“No. Just the dealers. You were here. Screaming.”

Matt shakes his head slowly. It hurts less, but the nauseated feeling returns.

“So I was whisked away by... who?”

“No idea. The jailed guys aren’t talking, they already lawyered up. Brett told me that one sang a little— said it was _three_ people, two in addition to you, and that they cut the lights. I don’t think they saw what hit them.”

“Two people?”

“They must've brought you here, _to your home_ , and called me. I mean, they _knew_ to call me.”

“That’s no surprise.”

“Why?”

“I have you listed in my phone as my primary emergency contact. When you get blinded by chemicals in a freak childhood accident, you tend to prepare for the worst.”

“Jesus.” Foggy gives a quick intake of break and shakes his head. “Anyway, they put the phone right up to your face or something. For a few terrible seconds I thought you'd butt dialed me during sex but then I realized you wouldn't be shouting about decibels.”

“Or maybe I'm just into some kinky shit.” Matt doesn’t feel like smiling but he gives it a go nonetheless. Foggy huffs in exasperation and stands up.

Matt gets up too, shaking his hands out. He moves away from the couch.

Walking is easier. The noises further away. He zeroes in… pepper. Foggy always leaves take-out packets of sugar and pepper in his pockets. It’s pungent, the packets must have opened up in there, settled in the corners.

What else? Cotton. In a pill bottle, the protective plastic barrier intact. Tylenol. For Foggy. Foggy’s headaches. Which are getting worse if his friend’s temple-rubbing is any indication. He needs to send Foggy home.

Matt bows forward, going into a handstand, walking on his hands in a quick sloppy circle then pops back up to standing.

“See? I'm fine. Go home.”

“What the fuck, Matt?”

“Go, Foggy. Have some dinner, do something about that headache, get some sleep. You look like death. Get it? It's funny 'cause I'm blind.”

“Ha ha ha. I'll have you know I look like a million bucks. It's too bad you can't see it, Magoo. You'd be wondering why the girls always flock to you instead of me.”

Foggy's attempt at a joke is valiant but transparent, his voice shakes at the edges and he doesn’t move from his spot standing by the armchair; somewhere between coming and going. Frozen. Matt would reach out to him if he didn't know it would hurt like hell.

Foggy whispers again, but his voice is level, harder-edged. The one he reserves for arguments. “Wait, how did you know I have a headache? Is that one of your super sense things? You can hear inside my head?”

Matt knows better than to antagonize his best friend so he opts for looking lost instead.

“Foggy, it doesn't—”

“Oh, come on!”

“Foggy... it doesn't work that way.”

“I guess it doesn’t make sense to pretend anymore. You know how I actually feel. Don't you? Is my heart giving me away?”

Matt puts his hand on the wall. It hurts to have it there but he wants the support. He rubs his knuckles against the brick. The truth is, it needs to hurt.

“I can’t help who I am.”

“I’m not mad, Matt. I get it. What you’re hearing is my nerves and my sleeplessness and worry. I’m scared. Terrified. I... what do you expect? All this quote unquote ‘Man Without Fear’ business has scared the hell out of me ever since I found you on the floor nearly bleeding to death that night. I mean, plausible deniability is not an option any more, because as much as I’d like to stay out of jail...”

Foggy trails off into a wordless growl of frustration. Outside someone yells parallel parking instructions.

“You’re my best friend, Matty. I can’t _not_ know what kind of trouble you’re into. Even if it means, god forbid, _disbarment_. I have to be able to help. You have to be able to let me.”

Matt’s nail is bleeding, cut lower than it should be, caught on a rough brick patch. He brings it to his mouth and sucks at its sharpness.

The agitation coming from Foggy feels like the slap of waves against a boat. Then, just past it, something faster and smaller. Behind the wall. An insistent thrashing beat. Tiny. Not human. Something else. Matt listens.

Foggy runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m always scared. I know you don’t understand fear anymore but _this_? This right here is cheeseburger deluxe scared.”

“I understand fear. Believe me, I—”

“How did they know about the sound thing? Do they know it's you? Who brought you home? Are they gonna come looking for you? Should we, I don't know, stash you somewhere? These are valid questions.”

Matt considers last night's events. The warehouse. The goons. The unexpected noise-blare— which oddly, he'd reacted to first as if they couldn't hear it. Maybe they hadn't. The last ones standing had put on masks as if they were afraid he'd remember their faces. Then nothing. Darkness. Without breath and movement.

“No. They don't know I'm blind. The sound thing was an accident, a lucky one, for them. If any of them were observant enough to figure out what took me out, they would come to the conclusion that I'm sensitive to sound. Probably not to the extent that I actually am. So unless they plan on testing the sound sensitivity of every single person in the five boroughs, there's nothing to put us in their crosshairs.”

“Why the five boroughs? Everybody knows the Devil lives in Hell's Kitchen.”

“They got lucky. It won't happen again. I can protect you.”

“But, how can you protect me—when you can't even stand to raise your voice?”

“I don't need my voice to fight.”

“Maybe so, but you do need to start listening if you want to stay alive, not something you're good at eve—”

Matt remembers something, something important, and cuts Foggy off by holding up his hand. “The Sharpshooter. Did he strike?”

“No. Nothing last night.”

A curfew had been in effect ever since Angie De La Paz and Tracy Reilly were shot by a rooftop gunman, both to-the-head single shots. Matt had come up with nothing and Hell's Kitchen had been on a nighttime-lockdown. But people had to work; they always had to work. On Thursday, a young man from Brooklyn, commuting from Sunset Park to wash dishes at local restaurant, 44 & X, stepped out to have a cigarette and didn’t even make it half-way through. Shot right in the stomach. That one had been a warning, clean and deliberate. Not a death kill, a message.

“How's the bus boy?”

Foggy’s heavy silence answers the question. If there’d been something handy to break, Matt would've broken it.

“You should go, Foggy. Go get some sleep. I’m fine.”

“How do you know? You seemed fine five minutes ago, then you went into a fugue state or something, followed by freakin' gymnastics. You don't know that you're okay.”

“I do. I know I’m okay.”

“Specifics.”

“There’s a mouse.”

Foggy wrings his hands once, then separates them, fingers spread. The air shimmers around the motion, hotter. “Oookay, that explains everything, then.”

“No, really. There’s a mouse. I can hear it, in the wall. Eating... stale peanut butter crackers. I can tune it out. I can hone in. I can listen to it and not get overwhelmed. I don’t feel dizzy anymore. I’m fine.”

“Promise me you won’t go out.”

“I promise.”

“Say, I, Matthew Michael Murdock will not leave the confines of my home tonight or else.”

“I, Matthew Michael—”

“No, wait.” Foggy moves away from the counter, turning towards the sink, the flare and flicker of his movement precise. He rips a piece of paper towel and swats at his pockets, fishing out a ballpoint pen. He scribbles furiously, pressing hard, trying to keep the paper towel still. Matt waits.

Foggy rips the paper towel neatly along the perforated edge and slaps it down with a flourish.

“Okay, come here.”

Matthew heads towards Foggy’s voice, eyes closed. Resting them. He reaches the counter. Foggy takes his hand and puts it on top of the paper towel.

“Go ahead, feel it and sign.”

Matt touches the letters. Foggy has mathematical handwriting, straight lines, all-caps, easy to follow. The ink rubs off on Matt’s fingers. Blue ink feels different than black, more liquid, with an umami-like taste.

“I’m not signing this.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to prank call Timmy Flanagan in exchange for a cornish hen from Ricciardelli’s.”

“Fine, that was just a test. Here’s the actual document.” Foggy slides another piece of paper towel under his hand.

Matt feels the words. Swallows. “So if I leave the apartment, I have to give you my rare LP of King Curtis’ _Live at Fillmore West_.”

“Yup.”

“And if I stay, I get a _peppercorn_? Really, Foggy?”

Foggy digs in his pocket and puts a small plastic bag on the table. Matt reaches for it, Foggy stops him.

“Ah ah ah. You do not want to be opening that, buddy. Or it’ll be sneeze city for you. Maybe even a coma. I'll handle the extraction, thank you.”

“You bought a bag of peppercorns.” Matt wants to smile. Foggy doesn’t. Matt can hear the stubborn no of it.

“I went shopping. For you. Because all you had was plain yogurt that expired back in April and we were hungry. And I saw these and I thought they might come in handy and I was right.” Foggy’s voice drops further into a soft, gritted-teeth hiss, “Do you really want to argue with me on this? Because while we’ve come a long way, I’m not sure I’m quite there yet.”

“Can I get the whole bag at least?”

“Of course. I know how much you love fresh pepper.”

Foggy takes the paper towel back, writes a few more lines, slides it back to him. Matt touches the words again, including the addendum, and presses the top of the pen down, hears the click. Carefully signs his name along the heavy straight line with an X next to it. The way the nuns had taught him to. With a curl at the corner of the M, like a pig’s tail.

Foggy takes the paper towel from him. “This is a legally binding document.”

“I know.”

“So that means you better stay put. Come on. Let me get a single good night’s sleep knowing you’re healthy and safe. Please.”

“I'll call you. I'm fine.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“I signed, didn’t I?”

“Come on Matty, don’t be a dick.”

Matt shrugs. Foggy steps closer, tentative.

“Permission to approach my asshole friend.”

“You may approach.”

Foggy hugs him. No back slapping or squeezing or jostling. Just this sad whisper-touching. Matt’s fine glass, after all. He hates it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go back to punching you in the arm once you’re better.” Foggy pats Matt as if he were a kitten; a mix of hesitancy and tenderness.

Matt pushes him back, at arm’s length, but holds onto him. The soft solidity of his forearm. “Your hair… it’s getting longer. Are you growing it out again?”

“Oh, kiss my ass. Call me. Or I’ll call you. I _will_ call you. You better answer.”

“Yeah.”

The briefcase with the broken latch. Some files. A napkin. A fresh pack of razors. The paper towel contract. Foggy hums under his breath as he gathers his things, an old drinking song that’s one of those Nelson family traditional numbers. He pats his pockets, then makes for the exit, walking with his shoes in one hand, his briefcase in the other. The humming grows more faint as Foggy gets closer to the front door. He stops there, puts his shoes down, and wiggles his feet into them, grunting from the effort. Foggy straightens up. They stand in silence—Foggy at the door, Matt by the counter— listening to each other not speak.

“Foggy.”

“Yes?”

“How will you know whether or not I stay inside?”

“Because you'll tell me.”

The simplicity of his answer hits Matt hard. He swallows against the feeling. “Yeah. But what if I don’t?”

“Then I get a great record.”

“That’s it?”

“Of course not. But I haven’t decided yet… I haven't decided where you and I go if you don’t even try, Matt. You have to try. Talk to me. Something.”

Foggy runs his fingers through his hair. Matt can smell the shampoo from the day before yesterday.

“I need to be alone, Foggy.”

Matt knows, as soon as he’s said it, that he’s said the wrong thing. The disappointment feels dull and heavy like a pressure drop before a storm. It’s not just Foggy; it’s their combined disappointment. It feels different, not them, painful and uncertain. Matt steps forward, conciliatory, begins, “Foggy, Foggy…” but fades before he can offer an apology or an explanation.

They never used to do this. The word ‘conflict’ and Foggy Nelson have never shared a sentence, much less actual space. Matt doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He hasn’t had enough practice with this new, fraught way of being—it is, for all intents and purposes, terra incognita. The nervousness, the feeling that he should be doing more than waiting to be forgiven.

Foggy busies himself with his hair, his keys, one or two more insignificant things before speaking, his voice directed at the floor. “Want me to order you some food before I go? You haven’t eaten anything in over a day. We tried to feed you but you wouldn’t swallow. You told us it hurt too much.”

“No, thanks. I’m good. I’ll talk to you later.” Everything Matt says is a lie.

“Okay.”

Foggy’s briefcase bangs against the door frame; he mutters something that sounds like “crapazoa” and continues out into the hallway. Matt concentrates. And keeps listening. Following Foggy as he takes the stairs. The song he’s humming transforming into something more current, takes a side foray into _Sempre Libera_ before settling into a slow, minor key version of _I’m Called Little Buttercup_. The sound of his lungs, a fine lace of passageways, and less closely, the way he yawns, long and loose, with the seeming knowledge that his bed is a ten minute cab ride away. Foggy, frowning and wiping the sweat off of his forehead with his suited-up elbow, snapping his fingers to remind himself of something, the way he always does. Out into the street, into the warm, new-glittery fold of the evening.

The mouse squeaks. A car skids. No one shoots, no one screams. Matt walks slowly towards the bathroom, sits at the edge of the tub, and turns on the tap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sempre Libera_ is from La Traviata and _I'm Called Little Buttercup_ is from HMS Pinafore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt asks Claire for help.

II.

The last thing Matt remembers before hitting the floor is Claire. In his head, a hot flare, the memory of her shoulder, his head resting on it. It had been so real, he'd known it was a lie, and he'd scrambled off of his bed the wrong way, bashing his forehead on the sharp corner of his nightstand in the process. He had smelled the red, tasted it, and thought of her.

His eyes blink open slowly to nothing. The body will do what it does. Even when there is no gain from it. The wiring is too strong to sever.

Matt starts with the basics. In and out, in and out. Brutal. Ragged. A long, pained drawing out and taking in. And loud. Louder than anything when everything else is too hard, like now, sprawled out on his back, the blood that had run down his face over one eye now dripping into his ear and the floor below him shifting.

The whole room spins slowly in uneven oscillations.

The phone is in his pocket. His sleeve and hand are wet from blood and as he retrieves it, the phone slides out of his fingers onto the floor. He rolls over, feels for where it landed, pushes the home button and whispers _text NN_ because that’s who Claire Temple is on his phone, a cheeky reference, effectively anonymous.

Siri’s voice is business-like as ever. _OK, what do you want to say to NN?_

Matt enunciates carefully. _Please come. I need help._

Siri replies, _Ready to send it?_

 _Yes,_ he whispers, breathing out hard through his nose.

_OK, I’ll send it._

Claire’s text back is almost immediate. The VoiceOver app kicks in. _See you in fifteen. Hold on,_ it announces in an authoritative, vaguely disapproving tone. Foggy thinks the VoiceOver interface is bossy in an “awesome” way. Matt doesn’t disagree. He'd picked the voice precisely for that reason. It’s crisp, polite, and utterly pitiless. Matt vastly prefers it to Siri’s bland helpfulness.

The corner of his lip stings open and tangy where he'd bitten down in shock. He had been flat on the floor, near the doorway between his bedroom and the living room, but now he's closer to the couch. Still prone but at least entertaining the notion of getting up. Progress.

His hands shake. That hasn't happened in a long time. Matt focuses on the tremors, each individual micro-seismic shift, and wills it to a stop. Then the next layer, wills it to a stop. Then the next. Stop. And so on and so on until his hands are still, palms up on his lap, waiting. The blood on his face cools to sticky dryness.

A car turns the tight corner of his block, pulls up outside. Claire doesn't pay. She must've already. Her voice, low and rushed as she thanks the driver, the clack of her shoes on the cracked pavement—heels. She rummages through her purse, not her usual, too much depth, and pulls out the spare set he gave her. The maneki-neko keychain cat waves. The hinge on its arm clicks softly with each greeting-lift. Matt had explained that the upraised arm meant she was always welcome to his place. So far she'd only let herself in when he called for help.

Two twists and she's inside, hurrying up the stairs. He follows her progression. She’s coming from a date. Hence the heels. When she opens the door, there’s a shift in the air, a warm rush. Then everything else: lipstick, someone else’s cologne and the scent of champagne. Not a date, a party. She’s wearing a skirt or a dress, her legs are bare underneath. He can hear it. The sound of her skin.

Matt pushes himself up with his shoulder. “Claire. Before you turn on the light, I need to assure you that it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Claire flicks on the light and she doesn’t gasp—she inhales, quick and sharp.

“It’s just a cut. I tripped.”

She kicks off her shoes into his front closet and there’s a clatter when one hits his spare canes, sending them crashing onto the floor.

“Shit,” she mutters sotto voce, gathering them up. “Sorry.”

Claire walks quickly to the kitchen sink and washes her hands. The water comes out hot; it hits hard, a fat scalding spray. She hisses, a fast _ssss_ , but continues rinsing. With anyone else, he’d think the brusqueness of her movements—that hard push down on the soap dispenser, the rough pull on the paper towel roll—meant anger. With her, it’s adrenaline-fueled efficiency. She's frightened. Not the kind of fear that leads to running for your life but the kind that feels like a scream you can't let out. It's there, trapped under the surface. He can feel it. She's afraid for him.

“I'd have cleaned up more but I felt... not so great. It's not—Claire, I'm okay. It's just my forehead. You know how head wounds bleed.”

She grabs a large bag from the corner of the room, hauls it on the counter, and unzips it. He hadn’t realized it was there. That is more unsettling than the blackout. Bandages. Disinfectant. Cotton. Medical supplies. Of course. Claire rifles through it and snaps on a pair of gloves. Some of the powdery interior residue releases into the air.

Matt’s embarrassed suddenly, for having called her, for not getting it together. It really is nothing. What's another scar to add to the others? He wipes at his face with his sleeve, sits up some more, attempts to look more alert than he feels. When she kneels down in front of him, his smile is wavering.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

She wipes at his face, and finds the cut near his hairline.

“Okay. Hang tight.”

The smell of iodine, gauze, thread, the needle, metal. Her shampoo, like grass and marigolds, shaving cream—not hers, something minty. He holds the soft point of her elbow the way she usually asks him to. To steady her. Claire's shoulders smell like citrus and salty-sweet perspiration; they're bare. She's been dancing and whoever she danced with pressed his cheek against hers. Mint. Sandalwood. Stale coffee. Antiseptic. _Not her. Not her. Not her._ Like a phone call or an alarm.

“A _doctor_?” he asks, without thinking.

The thread pull is harder, minutely harder, and she says nothing.

“You slept in my bed,” Matt murmurs, his mouth so close to her forearm, he could lick its salt.

A stray hair tickles his face.

“I _fell asleep_ in your bed.” Her tone is cool.

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes.” She loops the thread, closes it out, and snips with her scissors. She moves away. His shoulders slump. Matt rubs the pads of his left fingers together, erasing the feel.

Claire cleans her instruments and he listens, drifts. He hated the smell of rubbing alcohol but then he met her and now he responds to it differently, with something like anticipation. Relief. Matt touches the stitches, they’re delicate, small, tight. She’s getting better and better at the aesthetics.

“This is good work.”

“Thank you. Usually, I’m about practicality, but uh, I've been refining my technique—” She laughs ruefully. “—by suturing up supermarket chickens for practice while I watch the morning news.”

“Really?

“You're lucky I'm so dedicated to keeping you pretty.”

“I am. It's a difficult job.”

Matt pulls his knees up by grabbing the fabric of his sweatpants. He doesn’t have the strength suddenly. His legs feel like lead.

Claire rolls off her gloves, puts on another pair, presumably with less blood. He can't smell it anymore. There's no temperature shift, no sense of space, nothing. Matt bends forward to rub his forehead on his knees. His pants are soft, they have a soothing texture.

It's too quiet. Again. The bottom of a dark well where light cannot reach. Like losing his sight.

“I took a bath. To drown out the noise.” Matt doesn't know what he's explaining. His voice sounds thick in his ears, like syrup. “I fought with Foggy and I couldn't focus anymore. I thought it would help. Me. Focus.”

Everything goes out, with paltry warning. No radar sense, no fire, and in that moment of surrender, he rejects the fear.

Claire’s back, kneeling in front of him, and this time he leans into her hand. Her touch is gentle despite the latex, the washcloth is warm again. She'd run the hot water and he’d missed it.

“I missed it.”

“What?”

“When you ran the water in the kitchen just now. I didn’t hear it. I lost time. How long was it?”

There's the barest throat-click before she answers. Hesitation. “Thirty seconds or so. Has that been happening a lot?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it getting better?”

She snaps her fingers once, near his right ear. It’s sharp and somehow _wider_ than it should be even with the latex barrier. He flinches.

“I thought it was.” Matt reaches for her hand. Claire has long, spindly fingers. They’re strong though, and when they touch him there’s nothing tentative about her grasp.

“You'll tell me if it happens again.”

Matt nods.

“What happened after your bath?” she asks, pulling her hands away from his and rolling off her gloves.

“I went to lie down and I smelled you.”

Claire starts to say something, the words don’t quite make it out but he can hear the preparation. He cuts her off before she provides excuses she doesn't need to give.

“I got up too fast. I tripped. I hit my head on the nightstand. I was clumsy.”

“You sound like a battered wife.”

It’s not a joke; he can tell she doesn't mean it that way. It's an observation, a sad one. He has no reply.

“You good to stand up?”

“Yeah.”

Shaky and discombobulated, Matt uses his arms to push himself up off of the floor. Claire steadies him, her hands on his back.

“Come on. Let's go finish cleaning you up somewhere with better lighting. I know it's not a priority for you but I need it.”

“Foggy bought some lightbulbs,” Matt says flatly, like he’s imitating speech rather than actually speaking.

Claire leads him to the bathroom and has him sit next to the sink. She takes his arms and pulls them upwards, gently pulling his shirt over his head. He shivers.

“It’s covered in blood,” she says, by way of explanation, but he had known as much.

“Right.”

“Speaking of which, you need to do something about your living room rug. It’s starting to look like a crime scene up in here.”

“Only starting? I’m disappointed with myself.”

Her lip twitches into an audible almost-smile. It's beautiful. She cleans his face, wringing out the washcloth after every slow pass. There’s steam in the bathroom but cooler air surrounding where she is, so she comes together for him, a visual of sorts. Shifting apart, then coming back together. Her neck, her jawline, flickering in and out of his space. She pats him dry, it tickles, so he laughs, tilting his face up to where hers is closest. Her fingers graze his cheek. He lifts his hand to touch them.

“There. Face, ears, and neck are blood-free. Though you might want to shower.”

“Thank you, Claire.”

“Let’s get you a shirt.”

“I have a cashmere hoodie in my top drawer. Just give me that.”

He follows her to his room and she pulls out something from his clothes drawer. Matt feels the air shift rush towards him, his hand goes up automatically. He catches it. The zipper clasp cool in his palm.

“Thanks.”

“Fuck. I didn't mean to throw that.”

He smiles. “I know, it's okay. I caught it. At least that’s something. My senses keep coming and going. Everything is as it always is, clear, easy to navigate then… not.”

“How are you doing right now?

It feels like a loaded question even though he knows it isn't. _Answer it._ “Fine. I think. I’m not actually sure.” He laughs. It hurts his lungs. “I’d never be selected for a jury with that answer.”

“Here, let me.”

Claire pushes him to sitting on the edge of his bed, gentle but firm, and stands between his legs. He lifts his arms out automatically and waits. She’s careful, laughably careful as she pulls the sleeve past his hand and wrist. Claire brings it up his arm, over his shoulder, across his back to the other side and repeats the movement. It’s efficient, her hands don’t linger, even though he wants them to and she does too, judging by her heart. And if he scoots closer, pushes in so that he can feel her legs between his thighs, nothing comes of it. Claire remains where she is as if it's expected. She lines up the zipper, inserts it, and zips it up part way—three sharp tugs of _thzzzzzhhhp_.

Her breathing is different, anticipatory. She's crouched down right in front of his face. “You're okay to do the rest?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She moves away, speaking over her shoulder, “Your pants are fine but your socks have some blood on them. One of them does. The right one. I put some fresh socks at the edge of the bed.”

He feels around until his fingers touch the rolled up socks she'd left there. He takes off the ones he had on, slips on the new pair and waits. Outside, a group of tourists take a wrong turn. They don’t understand metrocards. Or New Yorkers. They don't understand the urgency of sidewalk traffic, the rudeness. They're glad for their yards, the quiet of their days. Not having to walk quite so much. Their voices fade out, en route to a Hibachi dinner and more complaints.

Matt gets up and walks back to the living room. He stands by the wall and listens to Claire moving around, the slap of her bare feet on the floor. She’s washing her hands, drying them, opening his fridge.

“I’m starving. I think I'm going to order.”

“Where from?”

“You’re up for eating?” Claire’s biting her lips and her hands are balled up into fists at her waist. She twists and stretches her torso; the air shifts around her.

“I think so. Something simple.”

“Galaxy okay?”

He smiles. “Comfort fare?”

“I’m all about sustainable normally, but tonight calls for something made with a shitload of butter.”

“Grilled cheese.”

“Yeah. With fries. And a shake.” Claire shimmies and laughs when he does. “Sorry, I got _Shoop_ in my head for a sec.”

“‘Can I get some fries with that shake shake’?”

“I don’t know what’s funnier—you saying that in your soft little Poindexter voice or the fact that you know it.”

“I may have known someone who owned the cassingle.”

“Riiiiight. So you want some fries with that shake shake?”

He smiles. “I don’t eat fries.”

“No?”

“Eh, it’s the oil. I can’t handle the smell. Soup for me. Tomato, if they have some. That shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Okay, I poured a glass of water for you before, during your mini-blackout. It’s on the counter.”

Matt nods and heads towards the counter.

“To your right.”

He feels around, sliding the tips of his fingers on the surface and finds the glass. Matt gulps the water down, unexpectedly greedy. He hadn’t been listening to himself, his needs, that much was clear. Claire takes the empty glass from him and puts in in the sink. Matt wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What did you give me? It's killing my stomach.”

“Antibiotics. Not a full dose. I expected you wouldn’t need a full dose given your powers of recovery. Do you think you need more?”

“No. How did you get them?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“What is that thing you guys are always talking about? Plausible deniability? Let’s leave it at that.”

Claire walks closer. He shifts in expectation.

“I don’t want to baby you, Matt. That’s not my style.”

“I know.”

“But you’re not giving me enough here for me to get a sense of how you are.”

Matt lifts his chin slightly, plants his feet slightly wider.

“How often have you lost time?” she asks.

“Since I woke up?” He mulls it over. “Twice. No. Four. Four times.”

“And the last time was just now, when I went to get the washcloth?”

Matt nods.

“Was it like this yesterday?”

His hand flies up to his hair, his head. “I don’t remember yesterday.”

“You had some semi-lucid moments. Conversations. But it’s like you were sleepwalking. I checked you before I left this morning and your pulse rate was back to normal. Then you laughed at something Foggy said.”

“What did he say?”

“Something about giving up the law and starting a bougie guacamole business in Brooklyn and calling it Holy Mole.”

Matt laughs.

“See? Just like that. You had no sign of trauma and your physiological responses were normal. There was some slight inflammation in the ears. Obviously, I couldn’t take you in—”

“Thank you. That was absolutely the right call. I had a cold, I thought I was good but I had an ear infection. I wasn’t ready, that’s all. I’m fine now.”

“But you don’t remember laughing. Or talking to me last night?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t remember anything past the noise.”

Matt can always tell when someone is looking into his eyes and it’s ingrained in him to help, to try and keep up the illusion that he can look back. He listens for her face, her eyes, knows he’s probably wrong, and hopes it suffices.

“Who brought you home? Do you remember?”

“No. But I know… that we don’t need to worry about that.”

“Matt, they know who you are. Where you live. That the best person to call is Foggy—”

“He’s my emergency contact.”

Claire's eyes widen, he can hear the soft inhale that goes with it, the flutter of eyelashes.

“ _You have contacts listed in your phone?_ ”

Matt opens his mouth but she shushes him with a sweep of her hand.

“You're unbelievable.”

“Claire, there are no names. It's Daredevil's phone. Just one number, listed as my emergency contact, no names. Because. You understand. I have to. In case something happens.”

“Okay. Brushing aside how incredibly fucked up that is,  _they know who you are._ Given that, they probably know who Foggy is, who he is to you. And you’re not worried?”

He’s thinking of words, things to say, smells, tastes to explain why there’s nothing to be scared of but he can’t. The fact is that a dormant part of his brain knows why. There were things that stayed with him. A lingering scent of nicorette gum and thyme. Faint whiskey, in the hair roots; an old hangover. Leather. Familiar. A man and a woman. Strong.

“I think, whoever they were, they were there for the same reasons I was and I got in their way. They’re friendlies. For lack of a better word.”

Claire’s heartbeat speeds up and she covers her mouth with her hand. She coughs, it’s not real, and then inhales slowly, pulse rate returning to normal.

“I think you gave me your cold.”

“Why aren't _you_ worried?” Matt tilts his head, focuses. He wants to know.

“I am.”

“But you're here,” he counters.

“I worry about you more.”

This is a compliment and a curse. It’s the thing that will keep her close but also keep him at arm's length. He wants that to change but he knows that she’s right. He’s a liability, any way you look at it.

“Claire. I can’t explain it. I just know. And somehow, you know too, I can hear it.”

There’s a street vendor outside, hitching a roasted peanut cart to his truck. Matt’s hit with a series of smells—car exhaust, cigarette smoke and peanut vapor. He used to worry that they could hear him, all these people he listened to. It took time to realize he was alone. The sole observer.

“Why isn’t Foggy here, Matt? Why did you send him home?”

Matt exhales with a sigh and it catches on the exit. “He was exhausted. He needed to sleep. I thought I was fine.”

“You said you fought about something?”

“No. Not really.”

The moment is heavy with her stare. He can feel its pointed attention.

“You know, I’m no human lie detector but I can read people pretty well,” Claire says, finally.

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I have to. Sometimes people get dragged into the E.R. and they tell me their pain is at five out of ten when x-rays reveal cancerous growths that should make it impossible for them to be standing, much less speaking.”

“I’m okay.”

She continues, ignoring him. “I don't know why they do this. Whether it's some kind of fucked up politeness or self-denial. Shame. Their reasons don't really matter. What matters is this: How are you feeling right now? Describe it. Be truthful.”

Claire is still and he realizes, after a few seconds of getting lost in her scent, that she's waiting for his answer. Suddenly her stillness is not so soft. Matt gets a sense of her being a wall, a wall he needs to break through, get around somehow. He reaches out and gets her arm on the second try. He squeezes it.

“Claire. I feel fine. Honestly. How was your party?”

She laughs and it gets him in the gut. Claire has a dirty laugh; a throw-her-head-back laugh. Deep and knowing. He pictures the line of her neck, long and exposed, full of sound.

He waits. “So you had a nice time?”

“You think you're slick, huh?”

Matt shrugs and fights back a small, smug smile.

“Uh huh. It wasn’t exactly a party. It was uh, a fundraiser for a battered women's shelter I volunteer at.”

“The one that's at 50th and 11?”

Claire sighs. “Of course you know where the secret shelter is.”

“Every now and then, there's some interest in the place. I try to deflect that interest.”

“I see. Thank you.” She laughs again and it's a grittier thing, tinged with a fraction of malice. “I probably shouldn't rejoice in abusive men getting their asses handed to them by my friendly neighborhood vigilante, but hey, I'm going to own it.”

“So there was a benefit?”

“A benefit dance slash auction.” Claire rubs her hand across her midsection, the heel slow across, her other hand at her hip. “I was barely there. I had one drink, one dance, one appetizer, then your text. My dress is cute though.”

There’s a shift in the air as she spins. The breeze from her dress-flutter and her heat creates a picture.

“A fundraising event on a Monday?”

“Hey, nonprofit, remember? The venue rental must have been cheaper. It was well attended. We even had some celebrities.”

“Anybody I'd know?”

“TV actors mostly, so probably not. It's a good thing though. Helps drum up some publicity, which leads to donations, which leads to more resources... It's not a sexy charity so we need all we can get.”

“So, did your doctor like the goat cheese and—” Matt sniffs the air even though he doesn't need to. “Olive tapenade?”

Claire licks her lips. “Why do you ask, Matt? You jelly?”

Matt smiles. “What if I were?”

“I’d tell you that you weren’t allowed to be. You made it clear what this was.”

He follows her voice, gets closer. “Oh yeah, what did I say exactly?”

Sometimes he doesn't have to feel things out or feel his way around, he just knows. Matt reaches for her, gets her by the waist, and spins her. He lets one hand follow the flare-path of her skirt. It’s silk, raw silk, and the raised shapes in the textile, triangles and dots. She snaps back to his arms and he asks again, whispering closer, aiming for her ear and getting the spot between her cheek and her mouth. “What did I say?”

Claire touches his brow, smooths across his cheekbone with her thumb and slides down. When her hand hits the juncture between his neck and shoulder, she pushes him away gently, and walks towards the hall.

For a smattering of seconds, he's sure she's leaving. The closet door opens and she grabs her purse, her regular purse, large and bulky. Claire finds what she's looking for—her phone—and calls the diner, orders dinner: grilled cheese, two tomato soups, a salad. After that, she texts someone. Then nothing. He listens and all he can hear is his own heart.

In the moments after, Claire keeps her distance, barely speaks. She clears up the detritus, the discarded gauze and thread and wipes down the places he bled on. She never does this; she's filling time. Finally, when there is nothing more to clean, Claire stills again briefly and Matt knows she's observing him. He sits on the couch.

“Thank you, Cl—”

Claire cuts him off. “Save it.”

She circles the living room, then crouches down, touching the mid-century cabinet that houses his albums. Claire taps on the wood.

"You think you can handle some music?” she asks.

“Try it. Put on whatever you want. Maybe not the free jazz though.”

She slides the cabinet door to the right and _oooo_ s. “I can’t believe I’ve never snooped through these before.”

“You had a lot on your mind at the time.”

Claire laughs. “Celia Cruz? That’s… unexpected. And old school.”

Matt smiles and picks at his couch arm.

“Classical, jazz—nice.” She goes through his collection carefully, sliding out the albums to look at the covers. Claire laughs and pulls out one that’s in a plastic covering. Judging from where she was in her search, he has a good guess for what it is.

“Is this an original copy of _Sticky Fingers_?”

“Yeah, it was my dad’s.”

“Wow. I haven’t heard it in forever. Can I put this on? I’ll keep the volume low. It’s mostly slow jams right?”

He nods. Claire lifts the lid off of the record player then carefully removes the record from the sleeve. She stands over the player, hunched over and humming to herself, and places the hole of the record onto the spindle. Claire handles the needle with a steady hand and after a tiny spark of crackle, the opening chords of _Brown Sugar_ start to play. Matt senses her movement, an unconscious sway to the music, and wishes he could join her, easy and uncomplicated.

Matt closes his eyes. “My dad used to play this when he cleaned the house. He'd sing over it.”

He gets a visual, from when he had actual visuals, with facial nuances and things like freckles. (He misses those.) His father with a bandana tied around his forehead and a cleaning rag in his hand, wiping down the blinds and howling along to _Wild Horses._ It triggers a cascade of laughter. “God. He was a terrible singer, completely tone deaf.”

“With your superhero hearing, that must’ve hurt.”

“Oh, it was brutal, even before, but…” Matt stops laughing, remembering how after the accident, it brought him giddy, stupid joy to know that at least he had that. “I still have a soft spot for people who can't sing but do it anyway.”

“It was just you and him.”

“Yeah. You?”

“Me, my mom, my dad, and my sister Fifi and my brother Ish.”

“Ish? Like 'Call me Ishmael'?”

“Yeah. He’s heard that one a million times. We have a huge extended family too. There’s a meet-up once a year in Orchard Beach. A big cookout. It's a lot of fun.”

For a moment, Matt thinks she's going to ask him to be her date to the next one. The two of them, outside, with others. He would go, of course. He would go anywhere she asks right now. Claire goes back to flipping through his records, one stops her, she pulls it out. She’s biting the corner of her lip and there’s lipstick and maybe strawberries and he sighs.

“St. Matthew’s Passion—your theme music?”

“Ha. I hope not.”

“Is this good? I don’t know much Bach.”

“Yes. Beautiful. I sang it actually, when I was a kid. There’s a boy choir in it.”

“You were a choir boy? Check you out. So I guess you didn’t inherit the tone deafness?”

“I wasn’t the greatest but I was okay. My dad told me my mom could sing like an angel. Maybe I got some of that.”

Claire puts the album back and walks over to the couch. It’s got an odd rhythm, her walk, slight hiccups in the stops and starts, as if she can’t decide what she’s doing. She sits next to him and takes his hand, softly rubs the jamb of his thumb. They sit quietly and Matt drifts, zones out, focuses on the car noise and a passing conversation between quarreling girlfriends. Hell’s Kitchen is quietest on Monday nights. Theaters are dark. Restaurants are closed. Even criminals lay low. There are long stretches where he crouches and waits without a single siren or 911 call. Claire brings up his hand to her mouth and kisses it.

“My grandma gave me a prayer book when I was a kid,” she says, her lips soft. “A small white leatherbound book with gold trim on the pages.” Claire pauses and he tastes the faint echo of champagne when she licks her lips. “Do you still remember color?”

He nods. “Sure. I remember.”

“I fell in love with the image of a guardian angel hovering over boy and girl as they crossed a stream, holding hands, jumping on the rocks. I prayed to that angel. Every night.”

“What did you pray for?”

Claire sighs, follows with a short laugh. Matt hears sighs as symphonies and this one is a Largo—beautiful, sad, lingering. He listens for the spot on her chest where the sound settles. She is made of music he longs to listen to.

“Lots of things. To not be afraid. More friends. New shoes. Boobs.”

On the ending ‘s,’ her lips part in a smile. It burns in his head.

“I can't believe I don’t remember this... who was St. Matthew again?” she asks.

Matt loves the way she says his name. He would like to put his hands up to her mouth and feel her lips as she repeats it. “He was an apostle.”

“Oh, right. Did he die full of arrows somewhere too?”

“No. Just St. Sebastian, I think.”

“I used to know that stuff by heart. It captured my imagination. It's funny what resonates when you're a kid. You look back and wonder what the pull was.” Claire brings her fingers up to her lips and bites them, teeth nipping softly on skin. “That reminds me. I gotta pick up novena candles for my moms when I go to Target.”

“They have those at Target?”

“They’ve got everything at Target.”

“Huh.”

He lifts his hand, tentatively at first, then sure. His fingers get her forearm, he keeps going to her shoulder, then the side of her head. She used to keep her hair shaved on that side. It’s growing out now. Matt misses it. He loved the textural surprise.

“So your mother’s Catholic?” The tips of her hair taper off into curling points. She'd must have it pinned up tonight.

“Mom wasn’t always so devout. She—” Her voice stutters, on air; it’s subtle. “... _rediscovered_ her faith.”

“Ah. Did she expect you to join her in her rediscovery?”

Claire shakes her head. “She’s not like that. Don't get me wrong, she would love it if I started going to church but that ain't happening, you know? My one concession to her Catholicism is no meat on Good Friday.”

“Ham on Sunday?” Matt offers.

“‘Scuse you, white boy, _pernil_ on Sunday.”

His face drops. “I'm... white?”

“Oh no, we’re telling corny blind man jokes now?”

“Hey, _you_ laughed.”

She shoves him, and immediately gasps in regret, putting her arm around his. “I'm sorry. I forgot.”

“I'm fine. Claire. I’m fine.”

Claire sits up on her knees, scoots tight to his side. She would be so easy to kiss. He can feel her soft breath. Matt directs his words to her mouth.

“In fact, do it again.”

“Do what?”

“Shove me.”

“You serious?”

He nods, still smiling. “I think I can take it.”

She pushes his shoulder. Lightly. He motions to her to do it harder and she does. He falls back with a laughing ‘oomph’ but makes sure to take her with him, her quiet wrist bones, her accelerating pulse, the rush of blood pulsing beneath, hot under his fingers. Claire is pressed upon his chest, he brings his hand on her lower back, feels the tight wrap of her dress there. His index finger outlines the patterns, rows of them, like hieroglyphics.

“Watch out, I’m taking kickboxing classes.” Her voice is low.

Matt laughs. “Are you?”

“Yeah. With Junior Suarez. At Kings.”

He’s impressed. “Nice. Wanna show me your moves?”

“You ready to take ‘em?”

“Try me.”

Matt jumps up from the couch and walks to a spot in the living room where they have more space. She follows, the swish of her skirt against her bare legs.

“Ready?” she says, and moves into position.

His hands hang at his side. He nods. “Yes.”

She jabs left, he blocks. There’s an uppercut right, he blocks it with his elbow. Claire isn’t hitting hard, they’re soft blows, but she’s fast. She laughs as she fights and he does too, moving around one another in considered circles. Her breath comes in faster and her feet smudge and squeak on the wood. He mirrors and blocks, pushes in. Matt crowds her against the wall and her laugh trails off into a question.

“You’re holding back,” he says, finally, then steps away, giving her space.

“I’m not used to just punches.” She brings her arms down, wipes her forehead with her forearm. Her sweat mixes in with whatever scent she sprayed on—ginger, grapefruit, musk. Something whispery-soft.

“Okay, add some kicks.”

Claire spins around and advances, kicking right then left. She favors her right. Her last kick is high. He catches it and rather than push her down, make her fall, he pulls her in. Claire’s thigh is muscular, he can feel it under the silk. If she were to angle slightly to the left, there’d be no question as to what he thought about that.

“I think I better get my leg back from you.” She breathes heavily through a smile.

“Of course.”

He bends down, sliding his hand down to her calf to set her leg down gently. In all but one crucial way, this is completely unnecessary.

“I think that fighting in this dress isn't a smart move.”

“Probably not.”

Matt follows her back to the couch. They sit, first her, then him. There’s a formality to their quiet, polite movement that’s out of place with what just happened and what he’s feeling. He rubs his hand along the upholstery seams, anxious for clarity, and failing.

“I’ve been reading about the saints. Trying to get closer to the idea of selflessness versus martyrdom.” Matt raises his eyebrow. “A friend thought I should clarify that for myself.”

“Your friend is smart.” A smile glimmers in her voice.

“I think I’m struggling with the concept of love.”

“Ooh, the _concept_ of love.”

“Self-love versus the love of God. Sometimes I feel that what I do is the purest of justice, sometimes I think it’s more about me than I’d like to admit.”

“Could it be both?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a damned if you do, damned you don’t scenario either way.”

Claire smiles. “How did you not wind up a priest?”

Matt grins, then shrugs. Embarrassed, bashful, cocksure. “I hit puberty.”

“I bet the girls loved you.”

“I did okay.”

“Right.”

He scoots closer. “How am I doing now?”

Her lip curls and he leans as if to capture it, the heated corner, with his mouth, his tongue. A foghorn booms from the river and Matt flinches. It's brief but Claire catches the moment, her fingers on his wrist.

“That was Jesus telling you to cool it, Casanova.” She squeezes his hand. “You know what? Our food should not be taking this long.”

Claire stands up and walks in the direction of the windows. She rubs her arms. The street is eerily quiet. Matt stiffens, remembering. “The sniper? You don’t thi—”

“No. They’ve been sticking to their Wednesday to Friday schedule.” Claire pads back to the kitchen counter and picks up her phone. She unlocks it, and puts it down on the counter, with a quiet, decisive thud. “Doesn't that rigidity seem weird to you? Like they’re trying to say something?”

“Very. It's deliberate for sure. A message.”

Claire turns to him, a warm shift in the air. “From who though?”

“I have my suspicions about who is giving the directives but... it'll be harder to make inquiries this time.”

“So Fisk by proxy. To you specifically. Not the Devil.”

Matt flinches. “What makes you say that?” His tone sharper than he'd intended.

“A tiny law firm provided the evidence to put him away, people don't forget that. What’s the message, though?”

He frowns. “All we know about this guy is that he's a very good shot. Really, the less you know, the better, Claire.”

She’s quiet but her heartbeat is furious.

Claire makes a call and walks towards the furthest window as it dials, her back to him. When Mary from the diner answers, Claire’s tone is clipped but not unkind as she inquires about their food. Mary offers apologies for the, as it turns out, lost order. They’ll re-send it along with something special, rice pudding or baklava, as an apology. There is another half a minute or so of apologies. They all smear together as a single, insistent tone.

Claire murmurs thank you and hangs up. She taps her fingers on the counter. “I imagine you heard all that. I’m not a fan of rice pudding.”

Matt nods. “Foggy loves the stuff, I'll bring it into the office tomorrow morning.”

“Nuh uh. You're staying in another night. You need to be a hundred percent before you go out there. This isn't a fracture or a break, this is the most important weapon at your disposal, your se—”

“Are you saying injury is nothi—”

“You can power through any injury, Matt, I know you can. This isn't something you can work around. Like bruised bones or fresh stitches. We’re talking this.”

She comes around the counter to the couch, sits next to him and taps lightly at his temples with both hands, her fingers, fire. “ _This_ ,” she repeats. “I know you're gonna go out tomorrow or the night after. Be ready.”

Matt frowns. “Foggy made me sign a contract that I wouldn't leave the apartment tonight.”

For a moment, Claire says nothing and then she laughs. Her laughter is sugary and tart, like key lime pie, and he joins her because the whole thing is just too absurd not to. A hobbled crimefighter stymied by a few words on a napkin, by the loss of a record, the value of a peppercorn.

“You two are ridiculous.”

“Thanks. I think.”

She takes his hand again and that’s all. They hold hands and listen to one another. He hears her blood sing, then past her, outside—static, trash talk in Spanish, someone describing the latest plot turn in a telenovela. The use of his favorite word in the language. He knows that these sounds will forever be tied up with her and this moment.

“Muchedumbre.” His tongue swipes over his bottom lip as if he's tasting the word.

“What's that?”

“It means crowd. Someone just said it, across the street. In the deli.”

“ _Muchedumbre_ ,” Claire repeats softly. “I've never heard that.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez uses it in _A Hundred Years of Solitude_. Often. That was the first time I came across it.”

“You read it in Spanish?”

“I took Spanish at school. Required reading in my class. I preferred Borges.”

“Say something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to hear your Spanish. Go for it… Tell me a story. Sing me a song. Recite a poem. Ask me where the library—”

“You have poems memorized?”

“Sure. Umm, ‘she walks in beauty like the night.’” Claire trails off in a laugh. “No, wait. ‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun—’”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Shhh. I got this. Shit. Wait. Umm. ‘I would like to watch you sleeping. Which may not happen. I would like to watch you sleeping...’ Fuck.”

“Is that a poem or a statement?”

“I used to know it. I can’t remember the rest. Margaret Atwood. Look it up. It’s beautiful.”

Matt can almost see her, the way he sees, his mind not his eyes; his gifts sharpening, honing in. Claire’s full lips, her cheekbones high and regal. He wants to touch her, feel it, get inside her.

It’s his turn. He inhales and begins, pressing his lips together firmly on the opening m’s. “‘Mis manos abren las cortinas de tu ser. Te visten con otra desnudez. Descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo. Mis manos inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo.’”

Quite without realizing it, which is unlike him, he’s been measuring her with his hands. The way Myra Donohue had shown him once when cutting fabric in the back of her dry cleaners. Claire’s heart beats fast under his fingers, splayed out against the thin dress material of her bodice. First at her back, then down to her hip, her thigh. He marks using pressure, pinching the silk upwards in small-rippled waves—the minute difference that he can always feel. One hand, two. He’s not making anything, the measurements are meaningless. He isn’t even touching her, but the action goes with the words. _Manos._ Hands. _Cuerpo._ Body. _Abren._ Open. Her belly dips in, he _hears_ it, she's gasping, small gasps, so he stops. Matt lifts his hands off, brings them back to his thighs, and pinches the fabric there. Pulls at it. Lets go. Turning his hand over, an open palm.

“Octavio Paz. _Palpar_. It’s short and easy to remember.” Matt smiles sheepishly. “I set you up there. Lawyer. Memorization is part of the territory and it happens to be one of my strengths.”

Her voice has a dryness to it; she’s been caught on a thought. “You have a good accent.”

“Thanks. A friend of mine told me I sounded like an earnest missionary, or maybe just eager. It’s proven… useful.”

“I bet.” She stands up, moves away, leaves a cold space.

Matt stands up, his hands fly to the back of his neck. “Hey. It was—”

“Stop. Matthew. Stop listening to me.”

The second to last song on side one always goes on too long and between honoring Claire’s wishes and dealing with the mess in his head, it makes sense to lift the needle off the record, concentrate on that simple action. He flips it to side two and sets down the needle just past the first track. The grooves and cracks play vibrant, like dancers under the hot glow of glass-reflected light, different than the heat of regular lights, and he thinks of the co-ed dances he went to as a teenage boy. The walls, the sweat, the warm soda. He tries to imagine Claire there, as she was then, saying yes.

His voice cuts the silence. “Foggy thinks it’s invasive.”

Claire hugs her arms around herself; he can piece the visual in his head from the sound of her palms sliding up her arms. She's frustrated fragments—the quiet gnashing of teeth, a shift of air as she shakes her head. “Foggy is right.”

He turns around, away from her heat. “Would it be better if you didn’t know what I could do?”

“Too late for that.”

“I’m sorry, Claire. If it’s any consolation, I can’t always hear you as well as others. You… trip me up. I get distracted.”

Her approach is cat-wary and soft; he turns around to face her and she’s right there. His arms go around her, because that’s what they want to do, and she doesn't move away. She puts her head on his shoulder and sways to the music. Eventually, he does too. Matt can’t hear her but it’s not because of what happened in that warehouse. His heart is too loud, it won’t let him get closer. He has to be content with not knowing, which is exciting, in its own way. She angles her head, her mouth is about three inches from his. Two inches. One. A kiss or words. Words.

“You think you could—”

The downstairs buzzer interrupts like a hot knife. She falls away, away from him, towards the door.

“I’ll go,” Claire says.

Claire grabs her shoes from the closet, slides into them, and goes down the stairs. Matt doesn't follow her too closely; he lets himself lose her. There's another job to do, the job of settling himself, not being so desperate to be with her that he doesn't comply with her request to step back. Flirtation is flirtation; it needs to be open and easy. It needs to have choice.

A shot rings out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scroll-over translation of Octavio Paz's Palpar is my own. If you're unfamiliar, I highly recommend his work. Most of it has been translated.
> 
> The song Claire and Matt dance to briefly is "Sway" by The Rolling Stones.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The question of whether to stay or go.
> 
> A/N: Please note the rating change from T to M for some NSFW content

III.

Matt is moving before he can even think, rushing out the door, to the stairs. He knows them, knows the distance between each step, but he trips anyway, and as he falls he separates the sounds (his lungs, the blood rushing in his veins, the pounding of each hit) between the intent (get down, get there fast, faster, use the mistake). He flips, a handstand into a bad landing turned ugly sideways roll. His shoulder hits wall hard and he ricochets back, using the momentum to fall forwards again. It’s faster this way, he thinks to himself, grim and terrified. _Get to Claire, get to Claire, get to Claire._ He miscalculates, and his foot hits more bannister than necessary and he slides down the last few stairs on his ass. The way she says his name, high and alarmed, cuts through the fog. Her hands are on his chest, palms open, leaning down. Stop.

_Matthew._

He grabs at her wrists, it’s her.

“Matt, breathe. It was a blowout. Just a blowout. That was no shot. I’m fine.”

Matt moves his head, trying to find the exact point of her voice. He breathes more slowly. She’s breathing with him. From above—a door creak, the shuffle of slippered feet. Ragged breathing from tired lungs, halitosis, and carrot juice. Woodrow Barry, 3R.

“Upstairs,” he rasps out a whisper. “It's Mr. Barry from 3R. Tell him I fell and that I'm fine.”

As if on cue, Woody shouts down “What's going on down there? I'm calling the police.”

“It's okay, Mr. Barry.” Claire calls out hoarsely. “It's Matt Murdock from the top floor. He fell.”

“I'm fine, Woody,” Matt croaks. “Just had a fall, you know me.”

“You sure you don't need me to call—”

“I'm good. I've got my friend Claire here.”

He can feel Claire wave to Woody.

“Okay, hope you didn’t hurt yourself,” Woody answers and then low, “Goddamn young people always in a hurry, what if I'd been on the stairs—” before shutting the door behind himself.

“Right,” Matt manages, squeezing her wrist.

“Come on, let’s stand up.”

He stands up on his own, his legs wobbly. “I didn’t land in the food or anything?”

Claire laughs. “No, the food is fine.”

She checks him for injuries, careful but quick. He could tell her that he’s fine, nothing’s broken, but he plays the patient and stills obediently under her touch.

Claire rubs his shoulder. “You’re good to go.”

“Okay.”

They walk up slowly, back to the fourth floor. Him ahead, Claire behind, two bags between them. Matt had left his door open. He turns and faces Fran’s door, waves, and listens to his no-nosier-than-any-other neighbor walk away from her peep hole and back to the Peter, Paul, and Mary concert playing on PBS.

Claire elbows him into the apartment and shuts the door. She grabs the bag from him.

“So is that your way of letting her know you’ve got super hearing?”

Matt throws his head back, and sighs heavily. “You heard her too. Her floorboards creak.”

She moves past him towards the countertop and he follows, stopping right behind her. Claire takes out the containers from the bags and puts them down carefully. Matt feels around for them and pushes them away, to the other side of the counter.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not hungry for that right now. Neither are you.”

Claire turns around, a measured heel-pivot.

“You gonna ask to touch my face now?” Her voice carries no intonation.

“I’m not giving you lines, Claire. I wanted you here. I want you. This is my response to you,” he places her hand on his chest. “It’s all I can hear right now. So go if you need to, but otherwise stay.”

The world hushes. He leans forward slowly and it feels like his earlier vertigo, but this time, she is tilting with him, a shadow. He keeps going until there is nowhere else to go except against her, pressed tight, thigh to crotch to chest. They move together: her back against his counter and her blood and his blood singing, rushing down through their bodies towards the main point of contact. Matthew hears a moan make its way through her, from her lungs, up her throat, to her mouth, dying against his neck. They are nothing but the haze of lustful music—a thick, thrumming fog.

He doesn't kiss her, he hovers near her face, letting his cheek touch her cheek, rubbing lower, down to her chin, his stubble, her skin. A small pockmark on her chin. Her mouth is open, she is breathing fast, and when he moves up to put his forehead against hers, he hears the crackle of electricity inside her head. She tilts her face, her lashes sweeping against his cheek, and bites softly at his jaw. He pushes her back, puts some distance between them. Her heat is overwhelming and she breathes under his hand.

Matt’s arm falls to his side but he shuffles forward again anyway—drawn, and she pushes back against him. Her lips are close to his, her tongue touches his bottom lip. A tiny, darting tip. He opens his mouth and takes it in. She breathes and the air comes into his lungs. Mouth, soft and full, fingers stretch and pull, her kiss contains smiles upon smiles. Honey again, pepper, lime. He pulls away.

She burns.

It’s just like the first time with her. He stands there, feeling her fire lick away at his fingers. He brings his hand to her neck, tentative, slides it down, his knuckles brushing the inside of her arm, the side of her breast. They breathe in tandem, silently. At the corner bodega a clerk sells some vitamins meant to enhance potency to a cologned old man about to visit his former high school girlfriend. Fran’s cats chase each other. Up above, stars whisper their ancient white noise. Or maybe it's just the buzz of man-made things. Either way, Matt can hear it and no one else can; it's his.

He steps in again, swallows, and bends his head down to kiss her bare shoulder. Then across to her sternum. Then up to the hollow of her neck, moving as she swallows. He steps away and she sways towards him. He listens to her. The heat of her, the perspiration on her back, the static in her hair. He gets close again, his hands slide down to her waist.

“Stop.”

Matt steps away instantly, panting. He puts his hands on his hips, turns, and hopes he doesn’t look too foolish—standing there, hard and needy.

“Stop,” she repeats, clenching her fists.

“I’m sorry.”

Anger and frustration have a similar frequency, a distinct drone, and as much as he’s listened to it, felt it, there are times when he can’t discern the difference.

“Matt, you haven’t… nothing’s happened since that time I was staying here with you. Tonight you smell another guy on me and all of a sudden you’re coming on strong. And that’s some bullshit. I know that it’s been rough for you, the past day or so, which is why I’m not angrier, but I don’t think this, you trying to kiss me, is really about me, or us—”

“You’re right.”

“What?”

“You’re right.” he repeats, his breathing more even now. “If you don’t want this, we should stop. I’m sorry, Claire. I’m uh,” he laughs. “I don’t know what I was going to say. But don’t go. I won’t do that again.”

Claire turns around again. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not leaving yet. I’m gonna eat my grilled cheese and I’m gonna enjoy it.”

Wordlessly, Matt sits at the table. Claire disappears into the bathroom and changes clothes, putting on some shorts and a tank top, like when he first went to her at her friend's apartment on 10th and 54th. The clothes were in her purse, the large one she’d brought with her. The kind of bag you use for an overnight stay. With something to sleep in and a change of clothes for the next day. He bites his lip in three parts: corner right― fact compiling; middle― realization; corner left― hope. It’s good, he decides, it has to be.

He manages the soup and a couple of bites of salad before pushing the bowl away, the too-sour tartness lingering on his tongue. Claire washes the dishes and he imagines standing behind her again, putting his chin on her shoulder, breathing her in. Eventually, Matt shakes his arms out, walks around the room, rolling his shoulders, fighting the itch to go on the roof and crouch and listen. Claire puts on another album, after laughing a tickled-sort of laugh, deep in her belly and raspy on release. He grabs hold of the bannister and stretches his back, in time to the horns on the intro. Matt could stand more volume. He’s ready.

“Could you turn it up a touch?”

Claire murmurs an _mmm_ -sound of assent and raises the volume. She taps her heel and the sound of it is a story. She’s walked barefoot on beaches, on rotting wood, on glass-strewn cement. She’s got a crease on her left foot, an old crescent-shaped burn on the front of her foot, and callouses on the tips of her toes. She used to dance, she still does, she’s a dancer. There’s that laugh again; it warms him.

“I had to hear if this was a side project or something. St. Paul & The Broken Bones.” Claire enunciates carefully, as if savoring those B's.

“Foggy got it for me; he thought it hilarious. I don't think he even listened to it. You know the story of St. Paul?”

“Saul. On the road to Damascus. I was blind but now I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Matt.”

He straightens up, he feels like he should, her voice dictates it. “Yes?”

“I want you too.”

Matt’s fingers hover over the bannister.

“I want you to kiss me. You know that. Shit, you can probably hear it or smell it or—”

“But?”

“But not at that moment, not that way. Not in that context.”

He tilts his head, a hair breathless. “What kind of 'context' are you looking for?”

Claire worries her lip. “One without fear.”

The answer stops him cold. Fear. What is he afraid of? It’s a long list. Fear of losing her. Losing himself. Losing everyone. Control. Forgetting to fight. Only fighting. Being weak. Failing. Abandoned. Alone. Martyrs. Bloody and alone.

Generally speaking, and this comes up on the witness stand quite a bit, most people don't remember _exactly_ what is said to them during meaningful conversations. They can paraphrase, they can get close, but it's never exactly right. What they remember is the feeling. Which makes for terrible testimony.

 _Bloody and alone_. He’d remembered that. The finality with which Claire had said those words. The way she'd walked out the door. Matt hadn't felt that tired and lost in a long time. He could still feel it.

She makes them both tea; she remembers how he takes it. They sit on his couch again, the sound of their sips punctuating the silence. Not uncomfortable, but not easy. A cool in-between.

Claire puts her cup down; it slides on the table. Hot water rings, blurred and messy. They listen to the music, or rather, he half-listens. Matt listens to Claire mostly, the wave-like movement of indecision in her limbs and within. She leans towards him, then away, then back, before stilling. When she moves closer, resting her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped around herself, it doesn't surprise. What surprises is her yawn, her body giving up to tiredness. Being comfortable enough to do so. Matt puts his arm around her, swiping his cheek against her hair. The music gets to him then, lulls him into a daydream. Of a man who has never needed to fight spending an uneventful night at home with a woman he's not afraid to love. No one dies or leaves.

His voice is a fraction above a whisper. “Are you staying?”

“Do you need me to?”

_Yes._

The thought is unvoiced. He shrugs instead. Claire lifts her head, seemingly to regard him, her head cocked. The music swells, the horn section modulates. The singer wails, _That’s all she left me!_

“Did you go to a Catholic High School?” he asks as the song fades.

“Why you ask? You got a thing for the uniform, Matt?”

He starts, a small laugh escaping his lips. “Well, who doesn’t? But I was thinking of the saints actually.” Matt gestures towards the speakers, vibrating softly. “I know you went to Sunday School. I wasn’t sure if—”

“I went to Dalton.”

“Really?”

She laughs. “Yup. Scholarship kid headed for the Ivys.”

“That’s not surprising. Did you make it there?”

“No.” Claire shrugs. “But that’s okay. Plans change and you adapt.”

Her hand is around his arm, a circle. There’s tension in her grip.

“What happened?”

If not for the slight catch in her breath at his question, he would have assumed she hadn’t heard him. She kneads the area between his elbow and wrist with her thumb and forefingers, slowly inching upwards, like a caterpillar. When she reaches the juncture of his arm and shoulder, Claire pauses. She stops her massage and brings her hands together. A gesture he knows now: controlled, helpless finality.

“My dad got sick senior year of high school and life derailed for a while. Pancreatic cancer.”

He reaches for her, gets a bit of bare shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Claire pats his hand. “So. What about you, hot shot? You made it to all the way to Columbia Law School. Foggy told me you were Summa Cum Laude.”

“He told you last night?”

Matt had forgotten that Claire and Foggy spent time together. Without him. Sort of. She laughs her dirty laugh.

“Yeah. He really likes talking about you.”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“He loves you.”

“Yeah. I love him. He’s the best person I know. Present company excluded.”

“Aaw.” She kisses him on the cheek. They both laugh. It’s fleetingly light, the moment, the touch.

“Do you still believe? In God,” she clarifies, her fingers lingering by his elbow. “Or do you just go to church out of habit?”

“I believe.”

She’s silent but he can hear that she’s nodding. “After my dad died, we took some of his ashes to Italy.”

“Some?”

Claire pulls away, rolls onto her back. She rests her neck on the arm of his couch and puts her feet in his lap. “My mom didn’t want to take all of him. Wanted to keep some in the apartment. To talk to, I guess.” Her punctuating laugh is more breath than mirth, like something that used to be sad but said often enough that it's become comedy.

There’s a lot of arch to her foot, like a dancer. Her calf is smooth and strong.

She wiggles her toes. “So uh, she put some of his ashes in an empty lemon candy tin, wrapped it in tin foil, and packed it in her suitcase.”

“How did you explain that to customs?”

“No one stopped us, thank god.”

“Why Italy?”

“He’d always wanted to go. He was much more of a Catholic than my mom. Avoided the big sins, didn’t sweat the small ones _too_ much.”

She pokes Matt in the thigh with her toes; he sways to the side, a smile on his face.

“Always followed by confession, of course?”

“Of course! God. I'm making him sound so half-assed about his faith. He wasn't. He was a big believer in service; to the less fortunate, to the community. He passed that on to us. We were organizing and volunteering in grade school.”

“Sounds like a good man.”

“He was. So yeah, my mom, she uh, cashed in some savings and off we went. To the Vatican, to Il Duomo in Florence. Traveled to Assisi, which was beautiful and calm and pristine. There were these big, wide steps, and quiet—a sense of peace. Aaaand a pickled saint who everyone lined up to see.”

“Pickled. This is St. Francis you’re talking about.”

“Preserved. That better?”

“Much.”

“You can request a mass there and the priest, uh, friar, looked in his date book and told us that the first opening would be on December 15th, which is, randomly enough, my dad’s birthday. My mom rediscovered Jesus in a big way after that. She thought it was a miracle.”

“What did you think?”

“That it was a lovely coincidence,” she says and her heart beats faster.

Distantly, the C train rumbles to a stop. Claire points her toes to the subway door chime. She couldn’t have heard it, it’s coincidence, he knows this and yet he’d love it if she had. Something else to bond them. Claire slides her feet off his lap and sits up, a whisper of cotton and breath and bone.

“So, what do _you_ do on Easter?”

“Go to the Nelsons’. There’s a lot of them. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins. Second cousins. It’s great.”

“You don’t get overwhelmed? By all the people, the noise.”

“No. I love it.”

A large contingent of Nelsons still live in a brownstone that has been in the family since the first one made their name in Hell’s Kitchen selling home goods to the immigrant Irish population. That's where Matt went, that long ago Easter Sunday, that first holiday. Foggy made him pat the painted brass horse head on the stoop-lamp because it was 'family tradition'.

It was a comfortable blur of a day. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson embracing him easily as if he'd always been there, hands of various immediate, secondary, and tertiary family members slapping him on the back or squeezing his arm. Dogs and cats hidden under chairs, breathing. The smell of popcorn, the television tuned in to college basketball. Pocket doors sliding open, banging loose on their frames, and scratched-in height marks in doorways, Matt felt as he passed. Foggy’s room, unchanged since high school and Foggy describing the baseball trophies on the windowsill, the posters on the walls, laughing at himself, his artfully preserved adolescence.

His new friend, ever the tireless ambassador, guiding him around and introducing him to everyone. Giving him a tour while the ham simmered. Pineapple and cherry. Mrs. Nelson’s obsessive cleaning, the smell of synthetic cotton scented cleaning product, bowls of homemade potpourri with tuberose oil sprinkled on top. Foggy picked off of plates in the kitchen, impervious to the hand slaps from his sisters, and chatted about his latest obsession—trees from Socotro Island in Yemen. _They look like rooks, buddy!_  

Foggy, ignoring the skepticism implied by Matt’s silence, led him by the arm through a hallway full of running, squealing children brushing against their legs like a herd of wildly determined cats. Away from the cooking steam and the gossip to a small room where they’d sat on the floor with a bowl of purloined corned beef dip between them and no spoon, no chips. The feel of a plastic chess piece placed warmly in his hand like the answer to life itself. Part metaphor, part improvised utensil. Foggy telling him _Hey, Happy Easter, Blind Matt Murdock_ and hugging him like he’d been a part of his life forever. Matt’s stomach aching from laughter and unaccustomed joy.

“How do you handle it?” Claire’s voice cuts into his memories, he turns to her voice, still carrying the echo of their warmth. He smiles.

“I’ve learned to zero in on sounds and textures, block other things out. Dim some things, amplify others. Learn what's important. It took time, practice. Discipline.”

Matt tilts his head and listens through the noise, like turning the dial on an old school radio, tracking the right frequency. “Like right now, I know that Fran is on the phone trying to buy some exercise videos she saw on an infomercial, that the line is busy, and that every second of waiting fills her with anxiety. I know that two pigeons are fighting over an egg sandwich in the alley downstairs and yes, I also think that’s disgusting.”

He touches the soft skin of Claire’s knuckles, slides his fingers back to where there used to be a neat stack of three rings. Rings she no longer wears. “I know that you still believe just a little and that you hate that. But you shouldn’t—doubt, questioning, that’s an important part of being a moral person.”

Claire takes his hand. “You missed your calling.”

The record stops. The needle lifts. This is the best time to ask.

“So can you stay?”

She nods. He feels it. But then she confirms it. “Yes.”

“You can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Outside the wind picks up, a late summer gift.

“We’ve already slept together, remember? What’s another night?” Claire is casual, she lifts her shoulder as she speaks. It’s her version of a shrug. He can’t catch her expressions—expressions ceased to be his thing post-accident—but she puts the picture together for him in his head so effortlessly, he doesn’t even need to.

Matt swallows. Smiles. Rubs the back of his neck. “So how, uh, did that happen by the way?”

“The bed-sharing? You asked me.”

Now she’s laughing at him.

“I thought I was incoherent?”

He inches towards her.

“You were. You kept asking about the woman.”

Matt stops. “The woman?”

“The woman at the hospital you said. She sang to you. She wouldn't leave you.”

“I have no memory of this.” He means it, he has no memory of it.

“You begged me to stay.”

Claire is all fiery outline and sweet sips of air. He longs for her, he can’t lie to himself about it and that longing eclipses any questions. Questions he should be asking.

“I'm going to go brush my teeth,” she says.

Claire walks past him to the bathroom and he goes to his bedroom, to find some distraction. He pulls down the top sheet and runs his hands across the fitted sheet below, smoothing it.

Matt forgets the time. Not because of a blackout, or his senses still recalibrating, but because he’s lost in thought. He had always meant to go slow with Claire, not just go on the green lights but draw it out, simmer. Wait until there's no other option but to touch. Every time though, the seduction seemed false. Instead there’s this, whatever this is, hesitant and unadorned. Gameless.

Right now all Matt wants to do is touch her skin next to her clothes, so that he gets both—the part that’s awake and out there, walking and helping and breathing with everyone else, fabric and cover-up, and the part that no one else gets to see. The threadbare cotton of her peasant blouse and the skin beneath, the space between her ribs, the lines and the curve.

Claire’s at the sliding door that separates his room from the living room. She licks the minty corner of her mouth, then stops as if remembering that he can hear it and that it’s fucking torturous.

“Do you want me to turn the record over?” Matt asks as he brushes past her to the living room. She barely moves to get out of his way.

“Nah, let’s just talk. Like a couple of friends who are sharing a bed and have no tension whatsoever.”

Matt laughs over his shoulder, glad for the joke. “I think I’m going to take a shower. Do you want me to bring you a water or anything?”

“Yes, a water would be great.”

Claire walks into his room and lays down on his bed. Matt stays still for a moment, listening, then heads to the bathroom.

He brushes his teeth, pees and washes his hands, rinsing the soap then cupping a handful of water and pouring it over his head. As he shakes it out, he listens to individual drops hitting the mirror surface and his arm and the sink. The different impact of each, fat and dull or pinprick-sharp. He starts the shower, it comes on with a screech of old plumbing. Matt fiddles with the knobs, makes it the exact amount of hot short of punishing, and stands under the spray until his fingers pucker. He's stalling; he knows this. He should expect nothing but—he _knows_. Matt knows what to expect. And he knows that he wants it.

After dressing, he walks to the kitchen sink and lets the water run until it’s at its coolest. The pouring-water-in-the-glass sound diminishes as it rises to the top. He walks back to the bedroom.

“‘The art of flower arranging’, seven letters. You got me, New York Times crossword puzzle. Any ideas?”

Claire flickers together, a moving picture, a puzzle. A cold room but warm where she is. The deadness of negative space. She is holding up her phone, stretched out, one knee bent, the other leg up in the air, foot pointed and flexed, point and flex. Her body temperature burns warm, impressively so. And her breathing, the rotation of her foot, the perspiration sliding down her cheek. She catches a salty drop of it with her tongue.

“Nope.” Matt holds out the glass of water, she sits up to take it. He sits on the bed, rolls his wrists slowly.

“Ah, here it is. I-k-e-b-a-n-a. Thank you, Google.”

“So what’s the deal with the doctor?” he asks with his back to her, trying not to listen to any of her non-verbal responses to the question.

“I work with him. He’s cool. I respect him.”

He lies back, she’s on her side. Matt doesn’t picture the flare of her hip, he refuses to. Matt closes his eyes. Open or closed, it doesn’t affect what he ‘sees’. “He works at the shelter?”

“Yeah, volunteers. Some of the women have unresolved health issues.”

Matt balls up his fist involuntarily. Claire covers it with her hand. Paper over rock, he thinks. His next question is whispered.

“Are you falling in love with him?”

“No. But I could. He’s caring, intelligent. It takes some skill to be a man and gain the trust of these women, but he does. They trust him.”

A siren whoops suddenly. Matt tilts his head. No emergencies. Just a paramedic anxious to get back to base so she can collect on a bet on a Yankees game.

Matt squeezes Claire’s hand. They’d been holding hands. It’s calming.

“Who was your first love?” he asks.

“Nardo Flanagan.”

“Wow. You didn't even have to think about it.”

“Nope.” Claire laughs. “He was gorgeous. Half Puerto Rican, half Irish.”

“A potent mix.”

“Yeah. He was my favorite guy. Hot, smart. Kind.”

“What happened?”

“We were in high school. Things change. I see his moms around the hood, she loves to give me updates on her prince.” She grins, then yawns. “He was a good one. Perfect boyfriend for a teenage girl. Just not for me as an adult.”

“Right.”

“You? First love?”

Matt sighs and it is unexpectedly heavy sounding. Enough to set off another laugh from Claire, which triggers him in turn.

“Oooh, I like it already.” She rubs her hands together excitedly. “Tell me the heartbreaking details.”

He starts a couple of times but can’t deliver the story and it feels like magic—the kind that keeps you from ever telling the tale. Matt closes his eyes. “I, uh, I’ve never talked about it.”

“Not even to Foggy?”

“No.” Matt can’t even tell Claire why, it was a choice at the time. It had made a kind of sense and now it’s just another thing he can’t take back.

“Childhood sweetheart?”

He shakes his head. “College.”

“Why’d you break up?”

“Grief.” The word is offered instantly, without thought, the letters floating in the air. G-R-I-E-F—big and blocky.

“Yours or hers?”

Long, wind-tangled hair. Tongue on teeth, not the roof of the mouth to make the right-sounding hard L. The smell of juniper. Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G, the adagio assai. That thin ragged scream. “Hers.”

“I get that.”

“Yeah. I did too. We wanted to live in our own little world. We thought we could. Life intervened.”

Claire caresses his face and he hates himself for needing it. “No one since, huh?”

“No. Well, nothing serious. I haven’t been a monk.”

She laughs and tips him back like before. It's playful.

He places his hand where she’d touched him, like it’s a wound, it’s warm there. “Is that any way to treat your patient?”

“If the patient is you, hell yeah.”

Matt thinks about touching her, the heat of her bent knee, the back of it where the skin is softest, but balls up his hands, stretches them out to limpness. “No, I haven’t been seriously involved with anyone.”

“Why is that?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Right. Prioritizing.”

“Claire, let’s not play games.”

She laughs a weak kind of laugh. Claire throws up her hands, exasperated. “Foggy didn’t seem surprised to see me wake up in your bed. I hated that. And I hated that I hated that.”

“Foggy thinks I’ve slept with all of midtown, downtown Brooklyn and parts of Harlem.”

“Have you?”

“Does it matter?”

“No. Would it matter to you? If it were me?”

“No. It wouldn’t. It doesn’t.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re a beautiful, intelligent, exciting woman. Desirable. With desires of your own. I wouldn’t expect you to live under a rock.”

“Damn straight.”

“But you choose not to get involved, too. You live alone. Why? You are a good person. Beautiful, intelligent, kind. Who wouldn’t want to live with you?”

Claire flinches as if she's been struck. He presses on.

“You choose to help me, help others. Often without payment, at great personal risk. Again, why? The thing that strikes me, again and again with you, Claire, is that you are living an outsider’s life when you aren’t one.”

Matt doesn’t need to see to feel the intensity of her glare. He reaches tentatively, brushing the underside of her jaw with his knuckles. Her breath hitches.

“We’re the same,” he tells, quietly. “So what’s the real issue here?”

“You know, Matthew.”

He hangs his head. “I didn’t kill anyone. I won’t. I didn't go there with Fisk, I don't plan to with anyone else. Going too far is not an option. I was tested and I passed the test.”

“I know.” Claire has more words under her tongue, he can hear them, but she doesn’t go on.

“So what’s stopping you: this, us?”

“The question is what has been stopping _you_? You’ve kept your distance. I’m sorry, but I’ve been through this before and I don’t like tortured macho posturing—”

He starts and her finger burns through the air. A single, swiping stop.

“Let me finish. I don’t want that from you. I’d rather flirt with you and keep it friendly, than have you start lying to me because you believe that you’re protecting me or some bullshit. I like you, Matt. I want to keep liking you. I know that makes sense to you.”

Matt crosses his arms; dimly he feels her do the same.

“I can fuck whoever I want, that’s true. I could fuck you, but that would be a lie. Because it wouldn’t be the only thing I want.” She hates the admission, he knows this. There’s the upwards spike of her heartbeat, telling the tale.

Matt stretches his arms behind his head, his fingertips touch the wall. The air pressure is changing, there’s a storm coming in. The heaviness settles in his bones.

“What? Nothing? No rebuttal?”

He grabs a handful of his shirt, the material bunches in his hand. “I can smell you and it’s driving me crazy.”

“Why? Do I smell like I want you? Can you smell that?”

“You smell…” Matt shudders and exhales. “Good.”

Claire inhales sharply, it sounds like an _ah_. She shifts sideways, hand under her face. “Too bad you can’t touch me.”

“Are you smiling?”

“What do you think?” She grins widely.

“Sadist.”

He tenses somewhat when Claire moves into him, resting her head on his shoulder, and nestles there. Matt doesn’t put his arms around her. He holds back, tries to breathe quietly, like a person reading or waiting for a bus when there’s no rush. He won’t give in. She’d asked; he’d promised. He’ll keep his promise. Her hair tickles his nose. Matt repeats, mostly to himself, “Sadist,” but smiles as he says it. He smiles.

His phone, charging on his nightstand, buzzes once, then announces _Foggy Foggy Foggy_ in its politely exasperated way.

“Excuse me.” Matt murmurs to Claire and moves to answer. No one speaks on the other end; there's only breathing and the distinctive sound of boiling water being poured into a cup of styrofoam. Ramen.

“Foggy. You shouldn't be eating that. It has 875 mg of sodium and is probably carcinogenic.”

“Shhhh. You're not the only one who has ears. I'm listening.”

The noodles expand with an almost imperceptible creak. Foggy yawns, then pulls the paper cover back on the cup.

Matt fights an answering yawn, suppressing it into a grimace. “We got paid on the Fischbein case on Friday, so I know you can afford to not eat like a college student.”

Foggy doesn’t reply, just yanks on a drawer, rummaging through the clatter of silverware before selecting a fork—the one bent tine pinging against the others too quietly for Foggy's notice but acutely for Matt. Foggy tears off the paper cover and tosses it in the trash. He stirs the ramen and leans over to slurp some into his maw. It’s repulsive but also, endearing.

“Foggy. What is this?”

Foggy talks through the noodles in his mouth. “Okay, no street noise, nobody asking for change or the sound of fisticuffs. Or drunk Germans singing Taylor Swift. Holy shit. You're _actually_ home. Wait. Put Fran on. Go ring on her doorbell or something. Ask to borrow sugar.”

“No. Why aren't you sleeping?”

“I did. I mean, I was. Then... I had a bad dream.”

“About?”

Foggy pauses, biting his lip. Matt listens to his top middle teeth sinking into his chapped lips. “You.”

Matt remembers suddenly, with complete clarity, all the times Foggy had nightmares, and when Matt would ask him what he’d dreamed about, there was that same pause, the same dry swallow. Matt had always assumed it was something personal—or possibly just pornographic—but it had been Matt all along.

“You’ve had nightmares about me before. Before all this.”

“I worry. Matt, I thought you were blind—”

“Foggy, I am blind.”

“You know what I mean, like real deal Holyfield, impoverished lady-florist blind—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Foggy.”

“It’s a movie reference. A classic! Jesus. Matt, I always thought you were going to get hurt somehow, crossing the street or something. People drive like maniacs.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“Well, I didn’t know you knew I was holding something back. Plus, it didn’t seem important.”

Foggy chews a soggy mouthful of ramen and it is almost comically forlorn. Matt would laugh if it didn’t sadden him as well.

“I don't know why I need to defend myself,” Foggy says, with that new sharpness that’s Matt’s penance. “I've always been truthful with you.”

There's a distant din of car horns and Foggy walks from one room to another, five or six wood-creaking steps, the path from his kitchen to his living room and sits down, sinking, the springs on his secondhand couch groaning. “I didn't want to make you feel like I thought you were helpless because I never thought that. Never did. Even before.”

“I know.” This is their life now, before knowing and after.

Foggy sighs. “Ah well, I guess I better come clean about that recurring dream where you turn into a giant moth and fly away into the night too.”

“You have a recurring dream of me as Mothra?” Matt had seen that one, when he was seven or eight, before. The image burns loudly for a moment and flickers to dimness.

“Yeah, with Supreme Court justice robes and R.B.G. jabot. What do you think it means? Is that—”

Claire gets up, her phone clatters to the floor. She picks it up, whistling through her teeth. It isn’t cracked but there’s a tiny chip on the screen. Matt heard the sliver shave off at impact.

“Do you have company?” Foggy asks with a mix of disbelief and suspicion.

Claire whispers _I’m going to the living room_ , then _Say hi_ , when Matt nods. She exits the room with her water glass, sliding unexpectedly in her now-socked feet.

Matt bites his lip at her yip of surprise. “It's Claire. She says hi.”

“Are you okay?” Foggy's heart beats like a rabbit.

 _I’m okay. Don’t worry. It’s a date, not an emergency. I walked into a parked car. I just need to sleep more. I’m fine._ Matt contemplates the lie-variations and finds them wanting. “Eh, I had a slight setback. An episode. Or two. I blacked out.”

“I knew it! I knew you weren't okay. Matt—”

“Foggy, it's okay. I called Claire. She's here. I'm fine.” Less of a lie, almost the truth.

“Why didn't you call me?”

“I wanted you to sleep. I swear, I thought I was okay but I wasn't. You were right.”

“I was right,” Foggy repeats dully. “Nope. Still don't like it. Put Claire on, will ya?”

Matt calls out to Claire, who comes in and puts her hand on top of his as if she’d heard.

“Foggy wants to talk to you.”

Claire takes Matt’s phone and goes back to the kitchen. She has the kettle on. The water is bubbling into a fast boil and is about to whistle. Claire turns it off before it can get going into a full scream.

“Yup. I’ve been timing them and it’s been about two hours and nothing yet. Shaky. Yes. Of course, he’s listening. He can hear you too. Physically? Showing off.”

She grabs a teabag and pours the water. “Matt,” she calls. “Foggy says to put the earplugs in.” Then she laughs, as if Foggy had whispered a joke. There’s a lightness Foggy elicits from her that he does not. Which shouldn’t surprise. If it was true for Matt, why shouldn't it be true for anyone else?

Matt doesn’t reach for the earplugs but he covers his face with a pillow which smells entirely of her. Claire keeps laughing, the tinkling sparkle of a spoon-stir providing counterpoint.

He refocuses his attention, goes back outside in his mind. There’s a cat on the roof. Shivering. Not a street cat, a house cat, slipped out from it’s home and dearly regretting it. He’ll have a look later.

Claire returns, puts her tea down, and plugs in his phone. It chirps upwards in three ascending notes.

“What did Foggy want to know?”

“If you were really okay.” She sits on the other side of the bed.

“That’s it?”

“He told me to resist your wounded little boy act. Is that one of your power moves?”

“Sort of. No. Well, I wouldn't presume that would work on a nurse.”

“Hmm. I don't know why I made this,” she says, clinking the side of her cup with her fingernail. “I already brushed my teeth.”

She lies down and turns to face him. Claire’s lips are full, lush. When she hums, he can make out their shape in his head. Matt ducks down in their direction, then back, fast, remembering himself before he can make contact.

Focus elsewhere, he admonishes himself. Not on her hair. Not the hem of her shorts, the fine hairs on her thigh. Or her voice.

“Matt. What do you think of the name? _Daredevil_.”

He grins. “Neighborhood bullies used to call me that when I was a kid.”

“For real?”

He nods.

“Were you one? A daredevil? Breaking into the crazy old timer's brownstone yard? Hitching rides off of taxis on your skateboard? Starting fights with dudes twice your size?”

“Nah, my dad made me promise to focus on my schoolwork, never fight, never take risks. I was a good boy.”

“And look at you now. Still a good boy.” She touches his cheek with the tip of her finger. “Daredevil.”

“I’ll take the name, as long as it’s scaring the right folks, it works. What do you think of the body armor?”

“You mean the superhero costume?”

He giggles, then nods once, licking his lips. “Yeah, what do you think?”

Claire taps her fingers to her bottom lip. “I kinda miss the old one.”

“No.”

“Yeah, it was kinda hot.”

Matt laughs.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucked. Didn't protect you at all. But it was sexy. I liked your little doorag. Flapping in the breeze.”

“Flapping in the breeze.”

They are both laughing now. Claire settles closer. “But if the new one keeps you safe. I’ll make do without my ninja.”

“It keeps me safe.”

“And it’s got horns.”

“I’m horny.”

Claire laughs, knee-pushing his thigh and covering her face with her hands. “No, you didn’t just say that.”

“A devil needs horns.”

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The Man Without Fear. Are you really that?”

He knows what she’s asking. “No. I’m afraid all the time.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t create the city, Matthew. Or bad men. They exist. I push past the fear, because not doing anything is scarier.”

“Yes.” Matt shifts and quiets, letting the truth of her words settle in his bones.

“Besides if you can help— _know_ you can help—you should.”

“You’re performing good acts. Like your father. Providing for the community.”

“So are you.”

“After the accident, before my dad was murdered—” Matt swallows, skips past the rest, chooses not to explain. Next to him, Claire nods, she’d known. “I used to pretend that I was in a fairy tale or legend and that Hell’s Kitchen was the woods and that my new gifts allowed me to hear the dangers, feel them before they could happen. Could help me stop them. But I didn’t know how to help. I really wanted to help.”

“You were a child. You must’ve been terrified.”

“I had a vivid imagination and a mile-wide sentimental streak.” Matt laughs again, but he’s exhausted and in a way, he feels like he’s holding on just barely to some unnameable thing. “You know what you were talking about before? The things that capture our imagination?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well. I loved The Little Matchstick Girl.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah.” Matt grins. “I used to read it and cry.”

Claire mouth cracks into a wide, beaming smile. He can feel the glow of it and turns towards its warmth.

Her voice is husky and disbelieving. “The little girl selling matches, which fall in the snow, and she fucking freezes to death?”

“That’s the one.”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“And she’s reunited with her grandmother in heaven. And she’s never hungry.” He kisses her wrist; they had been holding hands again. “And she’s never cold.” He kisses her hand. “And she isn’t alone.”

Claire’s mouth is open. Matt can smell the mint on her tongue and teeth. He thinks about snow. Claire in it. The way the snow would taste on her lips. Cold, melting, and lovely.

“We were living in this two room apartment and I remember one night, I fell asleep on the couch with the book in my hands,” He laughs at the sad memory the way one can when it dims. “A lump in my thro—”

She kisses him.

Matt doesn't quite register it at first, he hadn't heard it, didn’t realize it was coming. Her lips are soft and plush and she’s pressing them against his with a firmness that dissolves into smaller kisses, nibbles, gentle on his bottom lip. He opens his mouth and she presses forward again. It’s softer, wetter, aligned. They break apart and he breathes out.

“What did I say?”

Claire kisses his cheek and the small patch of hair he missed when he’d shaved. She bites his earlobe and stretches, her limbs long, lean, strong, alongside him. He’s alive to her, his blood is running wild all over his body, and it’s different than before. Matt’s mind is blank to everything except Claire.

Her hand slides down to his crotch, the palm of her hand heavy on his cock. Pressing down until it twitches under her touch. He gasps. Rain. In five minutes. Seven. Now. A mist of it. The cat on the roof, gone. No, asleep under the awning of the stair exit. The record not playing. Claire’s fingers, the pressure.

“You’re not moving. Or touching me.”

He swallows. “I don’t know if I should. Can I?”

The back of her hand goes up, along the shaft, this time her thumb finds his head. She runs the pad on his slit, on top of the fabric, exquisite and sure.

Her smell fills his nostrils. It's an invitation with letters so embossed he barely has to touch them to read it.

Claire's voice is far away and close—shot out, low. “Don’t you know my answer?”

Matt turns his face, buries it in her neck. Her pulse point is a mad flutter, his lashes against it, warm. “I need you to say it.”

Claire’s heart beats furiously, so does his; it’s making the mattress vibrate. Her hand travels back up his body, past his neck to his jaw. She moves his head to the side and whispers in his ear. “Touch me.”

He’s fast at first, straddling her, his hands traveling up her arms until he’s grasping her fingers, then slowing. Matt bends down to taste her mouth, gets her cheekbone instead and he kisses his way to her lips. Claire pushes her hips upwards in time to his meandering and he can hear the heady mix of annoyance and want in the movement. She grinds hard on his leg just as their mouths meet and he breathes into her. They're one wave of desire: drunk and drowning.

Matt pulls back, sits up, still holding her hands. Claire squeezes the webbing between his thumb and pointer fingers and he lets go.

Both of them are breathing hard. Claire moves first. She slides her top up and over and when it reaches her wrists, he clamps his hand down on it, holding it there, like restraints. She rolls her hips again, a persistent wriggle, and he lowers his head to breathe his way up her sternum to her neck. He licks back down to her breasts and uses his free hand to cup the heavy curve of one as he bites softly at her nipple, hard then harder. Her breathing changes again, thins out, deepens, and Matt lets go of her tank top, which he’d been pulling upwards, twisting into a coil in his hand, stretching her long, her rib cage straining. Claire removes her top instantly, tossing it onto the floor, reaching down to roll up his shirt, careful and slow. Slow enough to make him stop moving. He listens to her, smells her and an overwhelming giddiness washes over him. Claire has one hand on his shirt, rolled up tight in her fist; the other on his chest, which she touches like a lover. She pulls her hands away, pausing as if reluctant.

“Take it off.”

He does. Slow, in an echo of her touch. Matt throws it on top of hers and she laughs at his aim. He’s not above a show, especially in cases such as this; and he doesn’t fight the amusement pulling at his lips. Her hands slip down to the waistband of his sweats, go underneath the elastic. She pulls it down some. Not all the way. Enough to touch his hair. Matt sucks in a breath and thinks _quiet_. Rain. Laundry. The smell of detergent. Her nails, trim but sharp at his hip. _Claire._ He needs to hold back.

He shimmies down, his face at her stomach. Matt kisses her there, the lines of her muscles, feeling her jump every time his lips touch her skin. He tugs down her shorts, and breathes her in through her underwear. Silk. He smiles. Runs a finger down the middle, then knuckles back. She pushes into it and makes an open mouthed sound that's too airy to be a moan. He wants to be closer. Matt walks his fingers back up to her mouth, reaching, reaching and she meets them, swallowing to the hilt, her mouth a furnace.

Matt brings them down to his mouth and sucks on them too until they're wet enough to drip down past his wrist.

He pushes the silk to the side, slides the material against her as he does it, so that she feels it a little like he feels it, and if the catch in her throat is any indication, she does. Matt brings his spit slicked fingers to her pulsing clit, heat pooled and glistening, a fragrant heated wetness, and spreads the slickness around. He brings them back up to his mouth and Claire’s breathing hitches once more.

“Do you want this?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

Matt touches her again, his fingers dripping, sliding one in, and says her name as he curls his finger inside her. Says it again when he adds another. Keeps saying it as he bends down and breathes her in, his fingers moving in and out, deep, then back, connected by saliva and arousal. When he adds his tongue, she bites her lip to stifle a scream.

His pace so far has been glacial; he takes it even slower, letting his tongue touch her clit only when he’s past the knuckle-point and she’s fighting the sensation, tensing her thighs to keep them from shaking. Matt makes her wait, draws out each fall back. He’s not torturing her. He doesn’t mean to. He’s pushing his hips against the mattress at the same speed. Any faster and he’ll come. The pressure is exquisite and the feelings more so. He feels open.

There isn’t much preamble. Matt pulls his fingers out completely and buries his face in her. He eats her out the way he’d eat a nectarine; he savors the taste, hums against it, lets the juices drip down his chin. He licks around her clit, hard and pulsing, as if it were the ridged core of the fruit, and licks flat and wide on either side. When she yanks his hair and pushes up against his mouth, her mouth open but quiet, he slides a hand under ass and pulls her up, using his tongue to penetrate, adding his fingers to it, stretching his hand wide so that his thumb can flick back and forth on her clit at the same time. Her legs are spread wide, she is spread wide, and humming. Claire is humming.

He gets on his knees, lifts her higher, hand splayed on her back, the inside of his forearm holding her steady like a platter which he greedily feasts off of, his tongue and lips playing continually with her clit, fingers curled inside her and out, inside her and out, insistent and steady. She smells and tastes better than before, if that’s even possible, and Claire climaxes, long and hard, with an upwards pull on his fingers. She shuts her eyes, _slight release_ , he tastes her saliva as she shoves a wrist in her mouth to muffle her noise, _another long pull, a fluttering expanse_. The sweat at her neck, a hint of sweet, _and another, another,_  his fingers aching. Himself, too. He aches.

For a few moments, he thinks she might have fallen asleep. Claire’s breathing evens out, her leg twitches twice. Matt wipes his face with his forearm and rests his head near her hip bone, curling towards her, his still-wet fingers wide at her thigh. She grabs him by the hair again, pulling his face back and he focuses, listens for her lips, where they are, their sheen, how much he wants them.

“Come here,” she commands and he complies.

Matt moves up, using his fingers as guides: hip, belly, ribs, chest, neck, chin, her face, then her mouth. Salt and cherry lime and mint toothpaste, the barest echo of bubbly. Her smile when she kisses him, she laughs as she kisses him, and he’s drunk on it. All the possible tastes, inside and out, bright on his tongue. They kiss endlessly and he forgets to want more.

A thick blare of a fog horn—he is used to the assault by now, can anticipate the decibel hit, soften its impact. Living near the departing cruise ships at Pier 88, you either love it or learn to tolerate the sound. He’s back to normal now, senses on, no pain, and he knows—he loves it.

Matt remembers a time when he’d run to see them leave, thinking, _one day I’ll be on one._ Waving goodbye to someone on the shore. That was before the accident. Before his dad, before Stick, before Matt learned to really use his hands.

He moves his face along her shoulder and mimics the ship’s glide through the water from the Hudson to the harbor to the ocean, a single finger on Claire’s smooth, still-slick skin.

“You didn’t flinch.”

Matt kisses her ribcage, tongues a raised birthmark there. He smiles. “It didn’t hurt.”

“I love that sound,” Claire says languidly, stretching beneath his hand. “Foghorns.”

“That's how Foggy got his nickname.”

“He's into fog? Or cruise ships?”

Matt laughs as he turns his face towards Claire's. “No, Foggy snores. His family gave him that nickname. In school, I had to wear noise cancelling headphones in order to sleep.”

“So Foggy's his nickname? What his actual name?”

“You thought _Foggy_ was his real name?”

She pokes him on his side. “I work in a hospital. I see some crazy ass white people names, so nothing surprises me anymore.”

“Fair enough. Franklin. His name is Franklin. But no one calls him that. His own mother calls him Foggy. I call him Franklin sometimes. So he knows I’m being serious.”

Claire’s skin is delectable, he rolls his hand over her hip—fingertips to knuckles, wrists to palm—luxuriating in the feel.

“Ooh, do you use your serious voice?”

“What does that sound like?”

“Kind of like Batman.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, roughens the texture, adds some gravel to it. “You leave my city tonight, Joker.”

Claire coughs from the effort and they both laugh.

“Then yes. I use my serious voice.”

“He doesn't look like a Franklin. Foggy suits him.”

“What does he look like?”

“Kind. He's got a kind, honest face. Relaxed. Tired. That's probably on you. His hair hits his shoulders. It's strawberry blonde.”

“Sounds tasty.”

“Ha. It does.”

Matt has her hands in his and he brings her fingers up to his lips and he kisses them softly. One at a time. Like little blessings.

“He has full cheeks,” she murmurs. “Which you kind of wanna pinch—I haven't, by the way, aaaand he raises his eyebrows a lot when he talks. He’s a charmer. Tiene angel.”

“Que?”

“It's something an artist friend of my dad used to say. Eddie. Eddie from Chile. Literally, ‘he has angel’ but meaning he has…”

“Grace?” The word sticks in his throat. A memory, his father, saying it.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Claire sits up again, moves in. She smoothes his hair back and he closes his eyes. An automatic response, cat-like and relaxed.

“Do you want to know what you look like?”

He shrugs.

“Your hair is brown, do you remember?” She touches the cut at his hairline.

“Yeah.”

“Your eyes are also brown but there's other colors there—golds and olive green. Open them for me.”

He tilts his head and obliges. Claire is silent, her fingers trail down to his cheek.

“Yes, speckles of green. Like uh, olives at the supermarket. A dull, grayish metallic green. This is weird. And offensive, maybe?”

“I’m not offended. Go ahead.”

“Okay. There's gray there too, almost silvery. It compliments the gold. Tawny. Little bits, like a fawn.” At his smile, she laughs. “I'm sorry.”

“Don’t be. An olive from the supermarket meets a fawn. Got it.”

“Oh, you little f—”

Matt giggles and places his fingers on her lips. He kisses her chin. "Do I still have freckles?"

"What?"

"I used to," he indicates his cheeks. “Usually, I can feel them but I wonder... if it's the memory.”

“What, like, phantom limbs—phantom freckles?”

He nods.

"Oh yeah, they've faded but I see 'em now."

Claire places the tips of her fingers on his cheeks. It's featherlight-soft, her touch.

“You have lines around your eyes, like parenthesis.”

“Around?” He pictures them again. The circles within circles.

“No, here.”

Claire touches his skin carefully, drawing c-shapes at the corners of his eyes.

“They're laugh lines.”

He moves in closer, her breasts on his chest, triggering an inelegant cock-twitch. She stays stock still then bops him on the nose.

“Your nose... ain't cute.”

Matt throws his head back, laughing. "Okay, what's wrong with it?”

“It's kind of bulbous, like someone stuck a piece of play-doh on your face.”

“Wow. Well. I've broken it a few times.”

“Ah, you’re alright. The rest of it hangs well. I mean, there’s your mouth to keep it all together.”

His lips spread out into a wide grin. “What about my mouth?”

“Well, _that_ , for starters. You gotta know that works. Your lips are—”

Claire’s fingers are near the corner of his mouth and he turns his head and sucks on their tips. There's a click, in the back of her throat, a sort of dry gasp. The gasp deepens, goes wine-dark.

“Get on your back,” she whispers.

He rolls onto his back and she doesn’t follow. She wants to look at him, he’s aware of it. The heat of her inspection isn’t clinical at all, there’s no business to it, the nurse isn’t there. The usual tempo of her movements replaced by something heated and unhurried.

Claire pulls his pants off and his cock slaps back on his stomach unceremoniously. He raises his eyebrow in an effort to provide some levity to the moment but her audible lip-bite reads as hungry rather than amused. _Fuck_.

“Claire.”

“Shhh.”

She straddles his thighs, her legs spread just enough to make his mouth water from the scent. Claire knees up a little and lifts up his cock, holding the tip gently with two fingers as she rubs him between her legs, moistening him, making them slide easily against one another. Her clit is pulsing again, full of blood, and Claire lifts up and pushes herself forward so that she’s on top of him, her chest is on his. She aligns him at her entrance, squeezing his head tight and slowly takes him in, inch by inch.

“Claire.”

“Hmmm?” Her voice sounds far away.

“We need to stop. You—I need a condom. Now.”

“Oh.” She pulls off of him. He reaches for her, a thigh, and strokes the skin there.

“This is good, so good. I just… need to put something on.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Matt rummages through his drawer with a free hand and pulls out the box he got when Claire first came to stay. A box he felt guilty for buying but did anyway, just in case.

“Some Catholic you are.”

“Yeah, we’re all sinners.”

“Wait.” Claire takes the packet from his hand. She spreads his legs, the flat of her hand on his thigh. “Can I return the favor for a minute?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

No amount of daydreaming, or sensory imagination, could have prepared him for the feel of Claire’s mouth on his cock. Her mouth on his cock that had just been inside her. The suction and heat, the teeny tiny bumps on her tongue, flickering fast on his tip. She swallows him whole and he pushes out of her mouth, then back in.

“Holy fuck.”

She pulls back so her mouth is hot on his tip and she _mmmm_ s. That’s his name, he can hear it, she’s saying it.

“Fuck,” he says. Again. Because _fuck_. He pushes slowly into her mouth and Claire’s hands join in, pumping him past her lips and tongue. “Claire.”

She releases him and leans over him towards his nightstand, reaching for her glass of water. He takes advantage of the angle by lifting his head to capture her nipple in his mouth. She groans but keeps drinking.

“You want some?”

“Yes.” He lifts himself up on his elbows and feels the cool glass at his lips, she tips it back carefully and he’s thirstier than he thought because he’s drinking with a hollow, gurgling sound.

Claire takes the glass away and wipes at his face with the heel of her hand.

“Thank you—”

She smiles, a quick moist sound and silences him with her lips. Kissing her is unending sweetness and he touches her shoulders and neck, over and over, as part of his worship.

The foil is ripped, Claire rolls it on, then waits. He’s been listening to her so closely, he has no sense of which part is her and which part is him. Matt knows that this isn’t the vertigo or whatever that was. This is them. He rolls her over, to kiss her spine, lick down her back to the base, to envelop himself around her, then crawl on top. She wraps her legs around him, rubbing her thighs lazily on his sides, up and back, and he gets her ready again with his hands. She was already there but Matt is a hard worker, always had been; nothing is as good as something with a little fucking effort in it.

“Do it.”

Matt pushes into her and Claire is quiet, quieter than he’d expected, and the quiet allows him to hear her better than before. He pushes and sinks into her music. The buzz of her brain. The slight catch and release of her breath, the times the exhalation carries the trace of a groan in it, how the weight of that air leans heavily and dissipates. He pushes and pulls at her skin, ducking down to suck and nibble all over her, that neck, her collarbone, the slope of her breast. He pulls out, all the way out, and listens to her waiting. Coming back in laughably slow. Listens again as she tightens around him. Pulls back, less so this time. Another wait.

Claire puts her hands on his shoulder, then snakes them under his arms to his back. She’s touching every muscle and scar as she undulates under him, careful, focused, tight. Her hands slide down further to his ass and she grabs it hard, pushing up into his thrust.

“Yes, right there.” Claire bites his earlobe, then sucks on it, soft breath turning into a moan. Not high or trebly, not a performance—unexpected, then persistent. She unhooks her legs and aligns them tight to his legs, underneath, sole of her foot down his shin, to tiptoe onto his, foot to foot, locking him in place. They move together and it’s sustained, agonizing pleasure. Matt can’t stop or slow down the tempo, he doesn’t control it, they are together. His mouth is open and so is hers and they can’t kiss because they are too frantic. They gasp at each other, lips and lips. Together. He brings his hand up to her face and fans out his fingers. Index finger at her brow, middle finger down her nose, ring at her cheekbone. Their mouths meet between them as if separated by a screen and when he feels the shape of her lips with his thumb, she bites down, laughs. He kisses her as he touches, her name is on his fingers and tongue, and her face is clear in his mind.

There it is. The start. Claire is solar flares, big swoops of crackling sunburst, and he gives way. Her heart, his. The sweat running down between her breasts that he leans forward to lick. Sweet like cake but lined with salt. No street noise, no sirens, no screams. A quiet room and the wet slap of their skin, his name—Matthew—soft and sighing, sweetly exhausted. Her legs tremble, stutter-sliding under his palms. He has no fingers, no limbs. Matt is pieces, pieces of flesh, held by needle and thread and belief and rage, tearing away and coming apart. Put back together by fire then obliterated. Burning edges, paper-like, fluttering to the ground. Ashes. He is nothing but ashes. He is nothing. He is the absence of light. Finally.

“Claire.” It’s a question. It’s a statement. It’s a promise.

“Yes, Matt?”

They’re both asleep before the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Matt and Claire listen to is "Broken Bones and Pocket Change" by St. Paul & The Broken Bones.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in this world: health and a friend (or, the morning after)

IV.

He wakes up to birds. Birds singing outside his window. The loudest city in the world. Or close to it. His city. Waking up to birds.

Claire’s not in bed with him but she is at the doorframe, brushing her teeth, smiling and biting down on her toothbrush.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“I have your toothbrush.”

“Okay.”

She comes closer, steps, air, light-heat, her own body temperature. Claire is wearing one of his t-shirts; he can smell his unscented detergent. The hem hits her mid-thigh, she's naked underneath.

“Hold out your hand.”

He does and Claire places his toothbrush in his hand. She goes back to the where she'd been standing, and leans there, brushing.

The mint toothpaste taste zings sharply on his tongue. “Why the room service?”

“Because I want to make out with you and your sensory sensitivity must make you even more morning breath-averse than I am,” Claire enunciates around the head of the toothbrush, her s’s becoming th’s.

Matt lips pull up. Lather, warmth, teeth. Nose. Chin. Jawline. Hip, leg, crossed-over at the ankle. He brushes. The sound of the bristles against their teeth, musical.

She takes his toothbrush, comes back with water. It’s cold, bracingly, beautifully cold and she adds her lips to it after he swallows. He helps her remove the t-shirt. She doesn't need his assistance but he needs his hands on her skin.

They touch each other the way people seem to in the morning—with a careful reverence. She climbs on top of him, rolls on another condom and preps it with spit, lowering herself with a small shudder. He doesn’t know how to stop touching her and she touches herself as she rides him. He wants her to come first so he can make her come again, immediately, by having her ride his face. He’d make it past the taste of latex, he could block it out, he just wants her. That close.

Claire is beautiful, so beautiful. Beautiful. In a way that makes the word meaningless and small because it’s not enough. Beautiful. And this is what he’s thinking when he follows her helplessly as she breaks, into columns of heat and light, thighs spread out wide, his hand hard at her hip. Pushing up into the radiating tremors, that pulse outwards and fade.

They shower together. She stands behind him, gently soaping his back. Kissing him under the water. They get dry, they get dressed, they eat. All of it, peppered with touch and silence. Claire kisses him. Matt kisses her. It’s a quiet dream. The best kind; the most hard-won.

“What was up with the condom emergency last night? I take it you’re clean or you wouldn’t have let me blow you.” Claire bites into her toast with a smile. There’s crunching and her fingers at her face, wiping away a couple of small crumbs that fall on her plate.

Matt sips his coffee. “No, it wasn’t that.”

“'Fess up. Were you ready to pop?”

“You’re ovulating.”

“WHAT,” Claire screeches. “You can smell that? Oh my god, that just shot up to the top of the list of creepy shit you can do.”

“You asked.”

“And I’m sorry I did. I so didn’t need to know that.” Claire laughs. “I guess period-sex is a problem.”

“That doesn’t bother me. Never has.” He reaches out, his fingers spread on the table. “What made you kiss me? Why did you change your mind?”

“The fact that you don’t know makes me feel like you’re less of player than you make yourself out to be.”

“I’m not a player. I just like women.”

“Mhmm.” She’s holding his hand.

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

Claire laughs. “What if I did?”

“I’ve got no problem with that.”

“I know how much you like silk. That should’ve been your first clue.”

She inches closer, lifting her leg so that her thigh rests over his. He touches it with one finger, then the rest, trailing inside, past her knee, up.

“The kind of underwear a woman’s wearing usually tells you what she thinks is going down.”

“So you knew I liked silk and you wore something I would touch.”

He brings his hands back up on the table, palm up. She takes them with her own.

“When you touch silk it’s like a cat about to go to sleep.”

Matt raises his eyebrows and smirks. “You hate cats.”

“My friends keep paying me to watch ‘em. I _know_ those furry fuckers.”

Their hands are clasped tight and they move them back and forth, like a wave hello. Wrists anchored to the table, surface cool underneath.

“Do you go to confession?”

“Yes.”

“Will you confess this?” Claire asks, quiet and serious.

“What am I confessing?” He leans over the table to kiss her; she bites his bottom lip softly.

“Lust.” The word is hot on her lips.

“No. That’s not… entirely absent. But there’s more to this than that,” he falters. “Isn’t there?”

Claire lets go of his hand and stands, grabbing the cup and plate in front of her. She brings them over to the sink, washing them quickly. Matthew stays put, arm still reaching out, flat on the table. When she returns, she’s got a something in her hand.

“It’s a penlight,” she tells him, before he can ask. “Turn your head to the right, I’m going to have a look at your ears.”

Matt complies and Claire bends down. As she checks, she murmurs, “If you were to hear a loud noise right now, what do you think would happen?”

He leans towards her voice. “Nothing.”

Her heart speeds up when he kisses her, and she opens her mouth to more when his fingers touch her face. A minute or so later, they stop and lean their foreheads against one another’s.

She swallows. “I have to check the other side.”

“Okay.”

Claire moves around him and he turns his head to facilitate the examination. After peering into his right ear, she hands him the pen, and claps hard, once, right next to his face. He lifts his eyebrows.

“A single clap? That’s all I get?”

“Everything looks good, Matt,” she says, ignoring his joke and taking the penlight back, slipping it into her shorts pocket.

Matt slides his hands up her legs and pulls her closer. He scoots until his face is pressed tight at her abdomen and he nuzzles her there. The thin cotton of her blouse, the faint smell of him on her, lingering still. She puts her hand on his head; tentatively strokes his hair.

“Is there an afternoon mass?” she asks.

“No. Evening.”

“That's too bad. I wanted to walk you there. It's a good place to say bye. Can we still do that? Would you mind?”

He’d been so lost in his feelings, he hadn’t quite realized she had been getting ready to go. “Oh. Are you working tonight?”

“Yup, gotta save them lives.”

Matt stands, pushes his chair in. “We could meet tomorrow.”

“No.”

He stiffens, then sticks his hands in his pockets. Counts slowly to ten. _Don’t show disappointment. Don’t._

“Sorry, Matt. I’m busy.”

“Right. The shelter.”

“No. Something else. You’ll be hearing about it soon. Very soon, I’m guessing.”

Her voice is smooth, straight lines, no hesitation or sign of dissembling. Matt tenses, alert and ready. “Claire. What’s going on?”

She smiles; the heat of her smile transforms her space. “The less you know, the better.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re right. It's not. Don’t worry, Double D. It’s gonna be an interesting development.” Claire approaches him and puts her hand on his cheek. “Let me walk you to the church. Pretend that’s where you’re headed. Humor me.”

Matt doesn’t move. The beauty of having super senses is that uncertainty is not an issue. Except for the rare times when it is and the not knowing feels too much like helplessness.

Her hand moves from his cheek, down to his shoulder, then his arm. He relaxes slightly at her touch. She squeezes his bicep, her thumb swiping across. “Thank you for last night. And this morning. Would it seem cavalier if I told you I had a nice time?”

“A little.”

“I had a really, really, really nice time.” She kisses his jawline with each word and he holds still, doesn’t kiss her back.

Claire exhales softly, like a caress. There’s kindness in it. “In a little while, you’ll remember that you have to get back to work too. We’ll see what we got eventually.”

“You mean _you_ will.”

“We both will.”

When he’s ready to break away from her touch, he does. But she holds his hand down the stairs anyway despite what he’s sure to be telegraphing. She holds his hand in the street. Claire holds his hands when she kisses him, at a crosswalk, the sign making its warning chirps for the blind. The late summer breeze ruffling his hair. The hum and throb of the cars and the concrete.

He knows what streets sound like, what they sound like when they’re walked on, the exact number of skinny city Ginkgo trees on the block leading to church.

“By the way, Foggy texted me.”

“He has your number?”

Claire sighs. “Yes. I gave it to him. Call him.”

They walk and she slows down, not in any overt way. It’s subtle. Her steps take longer to land.

“We’re almost there… but you know that right?”

He nods.

“Here are the benches, on the right. This is where I’ll leave you.”

“Claire, whatever’s going on. Be smart, be safe. Please.”

“You too, Matt.”

His hand is in hers and slowly their hands break apart, until it’s just the barest whisper of fingers touching and letting go. A trail of lines and heat where their hands had been. Claire walks on and Matt listens, both hands on his cane, church bench a brief tap to the right. He listens to her until she’s lost to other noises, like traffic, cell phone conversations, a panhandler, the sound of several tiny, furiously fluttering hearts, and the flapping of their wings.

Matt takes out his phone and texts Foggy. _Meet me for an early dinner. We can play 20 questions. Will answer everything._ He pauses, then deletes the last word, replacing it with _what I can_ , then _I promise._

The song the church bells play at two is a sad one. He’s never been able to place it but it usually lingers in his head for days. Matt sits on the bench and lets the late afternoon sun flicker warm on his face, hundreds upon hundreds of lines making undulating ‘S’ shapes on his cheeks and nose. He’ll burn, but it’s fine.

“You might not know this, Matthew, but you have an audience of sparrows. How very St. Francis of you.”

Father Lantom’s voice is wry and the sound of it scatters the birds. They flock to the priest, hopping near his feet in a shifting semi-circle, ready for their daily bread.

“Come to talk, or _talk_?” Father Lantom asks.

“Neither.”

“Would you like to?”

“Can’t.” Matt badly needs some time in the confessional, but maybe not with the kind Father, or anyone who actually knows him. “But definitely tomorrow. Before my night duties.”

“Of course. “Quid sunt regna absque iustitia?”

Matt smiles. “Mere robberies.”

The sparrows fly away in a nervous mass of chirping as Father Lantom chuckles. He has a steady heart and Matt is glad of it.

“I’m glad to see you’ve held onto some Latin.”

“It’s come in handy.”

“That’s right. The law.” Father Lantom laughs and raps the bench with his knuckles. “I have to head inside. A parishioner has gifted us with a delightful looking German chocolate cake and I need to make sure it’s properly taken care of. See you tomorrow, Matthew.”

“Good afternoon, Father.”

Footsteps fade behind and away. A door opens, the air inside the church blows outwards briefly; a cool marble embrace. People pass, the soft thud of sneakers, the faint, tinny sound of music through headphones, the smells of half-finished lunches. If he listens with more attention, he can discern their flat-footedness, or smell their sour desperation, the headiness of their joy. It's beautiful or exhausting, depending on the day. Right now, it's wondrous.

His phone sings out _Foggy! Foggy! Foggy!_ and Matt answers it with an uncharacteristic nervousness.

“Hi.”

“Is this actually Matt Murdock?”

“Yes, Foggy.”

“The very same Matt Murdock who once dared me to drink an entire ketchup bottle and lost a hundred bucks?”

“It was $50 and yes.”

“$50?! Man, you’re cheap.”

An ambulance goes by on Foggy’s end and it distorts in triplicate, echoes, then passes in front of the church.

“Where are you?” Matt asks, after the din has lessened.

“On 50th and 10th. Where are you?”

“I’m in front of Sacred Heart.”

“Of course. When aren’t you?” Foggy’s voice dims for a moment as he greets someone passing him. It returns, blaringly bright. “Want to meet now?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Matt hangs up and listens, the wind, bachata blaring from a passing SUV, the unbroken long zzzzzzzhhhhhhh line of sound created by cars rushing to the West Side Highway, a woman walking by with a bouquet of freesias tucked under her arm, peppery and bold. “Did you tell her?” a man asks to a woman struggling with her flip flops. “Yes, I told her and I keep telling her.” Another man a street away, Victor Rivera, super to a block of buildings on 11th avenue, shouting “Hey, Fog-eeeeee!” on 10th and Foggy answering with a hug and a back slap and a promise to catch up soon. The long blocks of his neighborhood, the ecstatic shriek of a child. More ambulances, more music—something he caught Karen getting down to one morning in the office. A song that sounds like snake charmer music set to a dance beat and she’d laughed, the blood rushing hot to her cheeks. The distant rumble of the A train rushing uptown. A fight between a pedicab driver and the tourists he just took for a ride, both literally and figuratively. Lorren the Prophet singing _Marijuana. Marijuana cigarettes. Marijuana._ to passing teens in his Barbadian croak. The soreness of Matt’s arms, the crook where Claire had been, the line of her neck under his hand. The promise of night and further pleasures, further crimes, further payback. Father Lantom and his love of St. Augustine, The Earthly City inside of us all, The Heavenly too, and how Claire had been absolutely right.

Matt has to get back to work.

It's undignified and sudden, the way Foggy plops himself down next to him. Cheez-it dust and a fresh Frappucino stain on his shirt, no—tie, a paper bag in his hand, warmth, mess, and home.

“I’m thinking we could go to a show.”

“Really.”

Foggy crosses his legs. “Yeah. Let’s go see a Broadway show. If your hearing is back to normal, you should be able to withstand a belted 11 o’clock number.”

“Are you treating? You’re gonna blow all that litigation cash on me?”

“Why the hell not? I feel like a song. I heard that Hamilton is good. Actually… nevermind. It’s Tuesday! And y—” Foggy turns to him excitedly.

“No.”

“I haven’t even—”

“Nope.”

“You don’t even know—”

“Yes, I do and the answer is no.”

Foggy huffs. “Karen goes to Tuesday night karaoke at Josie’s with me.”

“That’s because Karen is a saint.”

“Fine. So what do you want to do?”

Matt taps his cane as he thinks. “Let’s go for a walk. Then dinner after. And those questions.”

 _Blink, blink._ Foggy regards him. “So you were serious.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“No.”

Foggy smiles and Matt smiles back.

“What kind of smells can you handle?”

Matt scratches his chin. “Well, I walked by Miss Loretta The Psychic on the way here and her perfume didn’t knock me out.”

“Impressive. That woman is a walking Sephora perfume section.” Foggy crosses his arms.

“What's that like?”

“Trust me, you don't want to know. I spent an hour in there on Valentine's Day once. Do you know how many vanilla-based perfumes exist in the world? Too many.”

“I'll have to visit. I’ll use it as training.”

“So you _are_ ready.”

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

“Okay, then. First question.”

“Ah, getting right into it.”

Foggy extends his hand out, in full presentation mode. One of his moves from law school. He leans in as he turns towards Matt. “Shall we begin?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

“Do you need a glass of water or anything?

Matt laughs, “No, thank you. Please proceed.”

“Okay. That night at Columbia when we were preparing for moot court—”

Matt shifts in his seat, interrupting with a laugh. “So you gave this some thought already.”

“—and you bailed at the last minute. You know, the night Marci and I got together. Did you really have the flu?”

“Nope.”

“You son of a bitch, I knew it!”

Matt puts his hand on Foggy’s arm. “Foggy, we’re in front of my church.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew where you and Marci were headed so I thought I’d give you both some space. Allow nature to take its course.”

“You knew?” Foggy’s voice jumps up a half-octave. “All Marci and I did was fight.”

“I know.”

“About everything.”

Matt nods.

“You,” Foggy drops his voice. “...dick. You _knew_ she liked me. The whole time. She did, right?”

“Yup.”

“She was my nemesis. For a year. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“‘Gee, Foggy, you know that fellow law student who throws her heels at you and calls you a Truman Capote-looking little shit? Her heart jackknifes when you’re near her.’ You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“I forgot she called me that. That’s really mean. And not true, by the way. I’m quite handsome.”

“I’ve never thought otherwise.”

Foggy laughs, the kind of laugh that’s colored with complexity. It curls at the corners, turning upwards and inwards. Sound that retreats on itself. It dies down and Foggy is quiet.

“I’m so mad at you. I always knew you were a smug bastard, but knowing _why_ doesn't make it better.” Foggy shakes his head back and forth. “I’m shaking my head back and forth. Do I even need to tell you this? I honestly can’t turn it off.”

“Please tell me anyway. Don’t stop telling me. Please.”

A woman in soft green tea perfume and sandals walks by with a baby in a stroller and a small dog, its leash wrapped around her wrist. The baby has a foot in its mouth, gumming it enthusiastically. Matt hears Foggy smile at them all. The mother, her child, and the dog. The baby gurgles and the dog wags its tail, straining to smell Foggy’s hand. They pass and are gone.

Foggy scratches his face, fingernails and freshly shaved skin, voice softer than before. “I’m genuinely impressed you never said anything. You must’ve been dying to.”

“About you and Marci?”

“No. About you and… everything.”

“Almost did a few times.”

“What stopped you?”

“Fear.”

The wind picks up in the leaves and the temperature waves move across his face. Warm and cool at once, in shapes, micro-shifting cut-outs of air and shadow. Foggy uncrosses his legs and moves forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He turns to Matt and Matt turns also. Listens for his words, the sound of his breathing.

“I’m your friend, you know. No matter what.”

Matt tightens his grip on his cane.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you that. Because you’ll think it gives you carte blanche to be an insufferable, high-handed bastard forever. But it’s true. So there.”

A sparrow lands next to Foggy’s foot and settles there, flapping its wings. Matt’s mouth wobbles downwards; it’s involuntary, and he lifts his hand up as if to stop it. A sudden sadness blooming on his face.

“You hear me, pal? Your best friend.”

“Yeah.”

Foggy stands and holds out his arm. Matt gets up and takes it. Foggy covers his hand with his own.

“You know what? I’m hungry now; I didn’t have lunch. I’m thinking Korean BBQ.”

Matt laughs, rubbing his eyes. “Not the place with the karaoke.”

“I never said you’d have to do it, we can just watch other people sing Boyz II Men amazingly well while we eat yummy smoky things. Come on! Doesn’t that sound great?”

“No, Foggy. It sounds like a nightmare. Do you have a list of every midtown establishment with a microphone and a songbook?”

“Absolutely. That is important life information. Second question—”

Foggy leads him to the southeast corner towards the Korean restaurant.

Matt shakes his head. “Just get a table as far from the mic amp as possible.”

“I’ll do you one better, we’ll get it to go and bring back our spoils to your overpriced dumpster of an apartment. This way I can hear at least one gorgeously belted R&B number and you don’t get to be a crabby pants. Deal? Deal. _Second question_ —”

“Admit it, you just want to eat in your socks.”

“Maybe. But also, I left my baseball bat at your place.”

“You did? Where?”

“In your front closet with all your canes. How many canes do you have anyway?”

Matt laughs. “A couple.”

“Seriously, you have about two dozen canes.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“The light’s against us. We’ll stop here.”

They stand at the corner, Matt taps his cane against the edge of the curb.

“So where did you come from?”

“I was at the office doing that thing called work. Someone has to, geez. By the way, we have a meeting tomorrow at 10:00. Nice, simple straightforward landlord/tenant dispute. You can do what you do—” Foggy waves his hand around, Matt feels the tinny, spiraling air of it. “—and tell me if we can take the case or not.”

“Okay.”

“Ooh, one more thing. We need to set aside some cash for supplies before Karen kills us. I think we're low on toner and shaking the cartridge only gets us so far.”

“Supply cash. Noted.”

“That’s it.” Paper crinkles and tears slightly.

There’s a click in the din of traffic, across the way. Light change.

“That’s our cue, step down with me.” Foggy times the command at the precise moment they walk into the street.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Oh, this?” Foggy holds up something. “I went shopping. Coming up to the curb.”

“Thanks.”

They step up onto the sidewalk. Foggy, a little breathless, grins. “Yeah. I ducked into Fine & Dandy and bought myself a bow tie.”

“What?”

“I know!” Foggy shakes a bag in his hand. “It’s the new sartorially experimental me.”

“A bow tie? Give it to me.” Matt reaches out for Foggy’s bag.

“No way, dude. You’re just gonna throw it in the trash. I’m going to premiere it when you least expect it.”

“Come on, let me feel your bow tie.” Matt giggles at the subtle thwick of Foggy’s grimace.

“You’re not feeling nothing. Hold on.” Foggy stops and snaps his fingers. “Oooh, you’re distracting me on purpose. We’ve gone two blocks without a question. You villainous bastard!”

Foggy jostles him and Matt grins stupidly as he’s moved around. This is as close to normal as he’ll ever hope to be.

“Okay, enough with the clever deflections. SECOND QUESTION!” Foggy bellows with a flourish. “You must answer or else pay the price by having to sing something of my choosing at the restaurant.”

Matt winces. “Go ahead.”

The wind picks up, blowing past like sheets on a line. Foggy holds his breath, the way one does before a jump.

“How are you? How do you feel? The truth.”

The truth. Matt breathes out.

“Hearing is back to normal. Calibrating the way it should, the way it usually does.”

“Any blackouts?”

“No, not since yesterday. But…” Matt stops and swallows. “But I’m not quite ready. Could probably use an early night. And uh, a sympathetic ear. So I’m staying in again. You want to hang?”

Foggy opens his mouth; a gawp. “Wow. We’re gonna hang.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Matt motions towards himself with his hand. “Bust my chops, I deserve it.”

“Nooooo, I’m really, _genuinely_ excited about this ‘hang’ we’re having! And the fact that you’re letting yourself take a night off.” Foggy's voice softens, airy with wonder. “That’s huge.”

“Well, what good am I if I’m not one hundred percent?”

“You’re always good, Matty. Though usually not to yourself.”

“You’re right.”

Matt senses Foggy wrinkling his nose and folding his arms. “Nope, still don’t like it. It’s unnatural for you to give like that. It’s gotta be a trap.”

“Hey, think of it this way—by saying you’re right, I’m effectively saying that _I’m right_ because the implication is: I know what’s true.”

“May I say, yet again, how very much your logic worries me, buddy?”

Matt laughs and Foggy pats him on the back; two solid thumps. He can hear his best friend’s smile like he can feel the sun.

Foggy moves on to question number three, about a pair of sisters at Landman and Zack that Matt may or not have dated. It’s a softball query, meant to be funny, a warm-up, but also a misdirection. Something to put him at ease before continuing with more serious queries. That’s his buddy’s superhero skill; he can make anyone feel comfortable. He lives to help, to make people laugh and open up, drop their guard.

The air cools and the city buzz shifts. It’s hours until nightfall and the change in the sidewalk traffic hubbub, the transformation of work-energy to play. Flats become heels; laughter is more real, talk turns outwards. The tangible, sordid, flashing promise of New York City in the evening, an outstretched hand that grabs.

Matt moves in and out of the incoming noises and smells, filtering the layers and layers of sensory information as Foggy prattles on about that Halloween party in ‘04 with the Seemangal twins. Matt squeezes Foggy’s arm, solid and warm, and laughs at the punchline cum question. Only eighteen of them left, but Foggy will be sure to add more. He was, is, and will always be the master of the loophole.

There will be no fighting tonight. Hell’s Kitchen can wait. Matt can wait. The sniper. His mystery saviors. The warehouse. Claire’s low laugh, a held breath at his ear. The bracing sensory tickle of a single peppercorn. He’ll return to it, all of it, tomorrow. Him and the Devil, one and the same, fighting for God’s City.

The irony is delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my story. 
> 
> Please follow me on tumblr: ghostcat3000.tumblr.com
> 
> A playlist for this fic lives [here](http://8tracks.com/ghostcat3000/the-earthly-city).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to:
> 
> BryroseA and lettered for betaing this endless story. You are both excellent writers and insightful critics.
> 
> MachaSWicket for the peppercorn and wonderful law advice.
> 
> TFSG 2015 for general advice and eye-rolling.
> 
> Absolutelyiris and Cabloom for cheerleading.


End file.
